INNOCENT
HER FANCY
AND HIS FACT
MARIE CORELLI
INNOCENT
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT
A NOVEL
BY
MARIE CORELLJ
AUTHOR OF "THE LIFE EVERLASTING," "ROMANCE OF TWO
WORLDS," "BARABBAS," ETC.
HODDER & STOUGHTON
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PR
Copyright, 1914
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
BOOK ONE: HER FANCY
INNOCENT
BOOK ONE
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 wan-
dered 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 w r eight 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 it-
self with long disuse that neither to the right nor to
the left of it could anything be seen of the surround-
ing country. Hidden behind the intervening foli-
age 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 cor-
ner, or the scent of secret violets in the grass, fill-
ing 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
3
4 INNOCENT
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 festi-
val. Or the thousands of tiny unassuming herbs
which grew up with the growing speargrass, bring-
ing 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 pos-
session, 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 what-
ever, and ended altogether, as it were, with a rough
shock of surprise at finding itself in such open quar-
ters. 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 ga-
bles, 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 con-
sidered such cheap currency. Men built their homes
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 5
to last not only for their own lifetime, but for the
lifetime of their children and their children's chil-
dren; and the idea that their children's children
might possibly fail to appreciate the strenuousness
and worth of their labours never entered their sim-
ple 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 un-
kind 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 par-
ticularly attractive about her except, perhaps, her
hands. These were daintily shaped and character-
istic of inbred refinement, and as they hung list-
lessly 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 in-
stantly, 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
6 INNOCENT
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 ar-
ranged 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 nar-
row 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 sev-
eral lads and men were about busily employed in
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT ?
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 burn-
ingly down on his uncovered head and bare brown
arms, and as he shook and turned the hay with un-
tiring energy, his movements were full of the easy
grace and picturesqueness which are often the un-
conscious 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.
8 INNOCENT
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 hay-
waggon. 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 lad-
der 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- ten-
derly; "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!"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 9
"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 com-
fortably 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 every-
where for the moment. It was a kind of breathing
pause in Nature's everlasting chorus, a sudden
10 INNOCENT
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 privi-
lege 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.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 11
"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 shaU. 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. "In-
nocent, 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!
12 INNOCENT
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, petu-
lantly.
"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 in-
definable charm of exquisite tenderness and fasci-
nation seemed to environ her small and delicate
personality with an atmosphere of resistless attrac-
tion. 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 pret-
tiest 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, re-
member! 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 poe-
try, 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 Cu-
pid!" 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."
14 INNOCENT
"I know that! Please don't teach me my A.B.C.,"
said Robin, half-sulkily.
She leaned back laughing, and singing softly:
<f 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 tune the
world goes on in ways that are quite different from
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 15
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 hearti-
est 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, In-
nocent! 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
16 INNOCENT
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 crim-
son 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 Inno-
cent."
"His baptismal name was Lothario," said Robin,
severely.
She was suddenly silent.
"Well! I suppose / 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, call-
ing 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 direc-
tion and the wearer shrilled out:
"Doctor's come! Wan tin' yer Uncle!"
The old man, who had been so long quietly seated
on the upturned barrel, now rose stiffly, and knock-
ing 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 al-
most 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 sunbonneted
individual called Priscilla walked or rather waddled
towards the hay-waggon, and setting her arms akim-
bo 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, im-
patiently. "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 con-
trasting lines of brown and yellow, showed no emo-
tion.
18 INNOCENT
"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 Lon-
don 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 mys-
teriously set in motion and rolling, rather than walk-
ing, 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.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 19
"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 mur-
mured. "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 be-
comes of me."
"7 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 Cu-
pid 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 ges-
ture "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.
20 INNOCENT
"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 flutteringly in her soft cheeks and
her eyes drooped under his fervent gaze. The glow-
ing light of the sky deepened, and the sun began
to sink in a mist of bright orange, which was re-
flected 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 youth-
ful 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 ga-
bles 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! What-
ever happens, remember that! All my life!"
CHAPTER II
THE swinging open of a great gate at the further
end of the field disturbed the momentary silence
which followed his words. The returning haymak-
ers appeared on the scene, leading Roger at their
head, and Innocent jumped up eagerly, glad of the
interruption.
"Here comes old Roger!" she cried, "bless his
heart! Now, Robin, you must try to look very
stately! Are you going to ride home standing or
sitting?"
He was visibly annoyed at her light indifference.
"Unless I may sit beside you with my arm round
your waist, in the Pettigrew fashion, I'd rather
stand!" he retorted. "You said Pettigrew's hands
were always dirty so are mine. I'd better keep
my distance from you. One can't make hay and
remain altogether as clean as a new pin!"
She gave an impatient gesture.
"You always take things up in the wrong way,"
she said "I never thought you a bit like Pettigrew !
Your hands are not really dirty!"
"They are!" he answered, obstinately. "Besides,
you don't want my arm round your waist, do you?"
"Certainly not!" she replied, quickly.
"Then I'll stand," he said; "You shall be en-
throned like a queen and I'll be your bodyguard.
Here, wait a minute!"
He piled up the hay in the middle of the load till
it made a high cushion where, in obedience to his
gesture, Innocent seated herself. The men leading
21
22 INNOCENT
the horse were now close about the waggon, and
one of them, grinning sheepishly at the girl, offered
her a daintily-made wreath of wild roses, from which
all the thorns had been carefully removed.
"Looks prutty, don't it?" he said.
She accepted it with a smile.
"Is it for me? Oh, Larry, how nice of you! Am
I to wear it?"
"If ye loike!" This with another grin.
She set it on her uncovered head and became at
once a model for a Romney; the wild roses with
their delicate pink and white against her brown hair
suited the hues of her complexion and the tender
grey of her eyes; and when, thus adorned, she
looked up at her companion, he was fain to turn
away quickly lest his admiration should be too
plainly made manifest before profane witnesses.
Roger, meanwhile, was being harnessed to the
waggon. He was a handsome creature of his kind,
and he knew it. As he turned his bright soft glance
from side to side with a conscious pride in himself
and his surroundings, he seemed to be perfectly
aware that the knots of bright red ribbon tied in his
long and heavy mane meant some sort of festival.
When all was done the haymakers gathered round.
"Good luck to the last load, Mr. Clifford!" they
shouted.
"Good luck to you all!" answered Robin, cheerily.
"Good luck t'ye, Miss!" and they raised their
sun-browned faces to the girl as she looked down
upon them. "As fine a crop and as fair a load next
year ! "
"Good luck to you!" she responded then sud-
denly bending a little forward she said almost
breathlessly: "Please wish luck to Dad! He's not
well and he isn't here! Oh, please don't forget
him!"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 23
They all stared at her for a moment, as if startled
or surprised, then they all joined in a stentorian
shout.
"That's right, Miss! Good luck to the master!
Many good years of life to him, and better crops
every year!"
She drew back, smiling her thanks, but there were
tears in her eyes. And then they all started in a
pretty procession the men leading Roger, who
paced along the meadow with equine dignity, shak-
ing his ribbons now and again as if he were fully
conscious of carrying something more valuable than
mere hay, and above them all smiled the girl's
young face, framed in its soft brown hair and
crowned with the wild roses, while at her side stood
the very type of a model Englishman, with all the
promise of splendid life and vigour in the build of
his form, the set of his shoulders and the poise of
his handsome head. It was a picture of youth and
beauty and lovely nature set against the warm even-
ing tint of the sky, one of those pictures which,
though drawn for the moment only on the minds of
those who see it, is yet never forgotten.
Arriving presently at a vast enclosure, in which
already two loads of hay were being stacked, they
were hailed with a cheery shout by several other
labourers at work, and very soon a strong smell of
beer began to mingle with the odour of the hay and
the dewy scent of the elder flowers and sweet briar
in the hedges close by.
"Have a drop, Mr. Clifford!" said one tall, power-
ful-looking man who seemed to be a leader among
the others, holding out a pewter tankard full and
frothing over.
Robin Clifford smiled and put his lips to it.
"Just to your health, Landon!" he said "I'm
not a drinking man."
24 INNOCENT
"Haymaking's thirsty work," commented the
other. "Will Miss Jocelyn do us the honour?"
The girl made a wry little face.
"I don't like beer, Mr. Landon," she said "It's
horrid stuff, even when it's home-brewed! I help
to make it, you see!"
She laughed gaily they all laughed with her, and
then there was a little altercation which ended in
her putting her lips to the tankard just offered to
Robin and sipping the merest fleck of its foam. Lan-
don watched her, and as she returned the cup, put
his own mouth to the place hers had touched and
drank the whole draught off greedily. Robin did
not see his action, but the girl did, and a deep blush
of offence suffused her cheeks. She rose, a little
nervously.
"I'll go in now," she said "Dad must be alone
by this time."
"All right!" And Robin jumped lightly from the
top of the load to the ground and put the ladder up
for her to descend. She came down daintily, turn-
ing her back to him so that the hem of her neat
white skirt fell like a little snowflake over each
rung of the ladder, veiling not only her slim ankles
but the very heels of her shoes. When she was
nearly at the bottom, he caught her up and set
her lightly on the ground.
"There you are!" he said, with a laugh "When
you get into the house you can tell Uncle that you
are a Rose Queen, a Hay Queen, and Queen of
everything and everyone on Briar Farm, including
your very humble servant, Robin Clifford!"
"And your humblest of slaves, Ned Landon!"
added Landon, with a quick glance, doffing his cap.
"Mr. Clifford mustn't expect to have it all his own
way!"
"What the devil are you talking about?" de-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 25
manded Robin, turning upon him with a sudden
fierceness.
Innocent gave him an appealing look.
"Don't! Oh, don't quarrel!" she whispered,
and with a parting nod to the whole party of work-
ers she hurried away.
With her disappearance came a brief pause among
the men. Then Robin, turning away from Landon,
proceeded to give various orders. He was a, person
in authority, and as everyone knew, was likely to
be the owner of the farm when his uncle was dead.
Landon went close up to him.
"Mr. Clifford," he said, somewhat thickly, "you
heard what I said just now? You mustn't expect
to have it all your own way! There's other men
after the girl as well as you!"
Clifford glanced him up and down.
"Yourself, I suppose?" he retorted.
"And why not?" sneered Landon.
"Only because there are two sides to every ques-
tion/' said Clifford, carelessly, with a laugh. "And
no decision can be arrived at till both are heard!"
He climbed up among the other men and set to
work, stacking steadily, and singing in a fine soft
baritone the old fifteenth-century song:
"Yonder comes a courteous knight,
Lustily raking over the hay,
He was well aware of a bonny lass,
As she came wandering over the way.
Then she sang Downe a downe, hey downe derry !
"Jove you speed, fair ladye, he said,
Among the leaves that be so greene,
If I were a king and wore a crown,
Full soon faire Ladye shouldst thou be queene.
Then she sang Downe a downe, hey downe derry !"
Landon looked up at him with a dark smile.
26 INNOCENT
"Those laugh best who laugh last!" he muttered,
"And a whistling throstle has had its neck wrung
before now!"
Meanwhile Innocent had entered the farmhouse.
Passing through the hall, which, unaltered since the
days of its original building, was vaulted high and
heavily timbered, she went first into the kitchen to
see Priscilla, who, assisted by a couple of strong rosy-
cheeked girls, did all the housework and cooking of
the farm. She found that personage rolling out
pastry and talking volubly as she rolled:
"Ah! You'll never come to much good, Jenny
Spinner," she cried. "What with a muck of dirty
dishes in one corner and a muddle of ragged clouts
in another, you're the very model of a wife for a
farm hand! Can't sew a gown for yerself neither,
but bound to send it into town to be made for ye,
and couldn't put a button on a pair of breeches for
fear of 'urtin' yer delicate fingers! Well! God 'elp
ye when the man comes as ye're lookin' for! He'll
be a fool anyhow, for all men are that, but he'll
be twice a fool if he takes you for a life-satchel on
his shoulders!"
Jenny Spinner endured this tirade patiently, and
went on with the washing-up in which she was en-
gaged, only turning her head to look at Innocent as
she appeared suddenly in the kitchen doorway, with
her hair slightly dishevelled and the wreath of wild
roses crowning her brows.
"Priscilla, where's Dad?" she asked.
"Lord save us, lovey! You gave me a real scare
coming in like that with them roses on yer head
like a pixie out of the woods! The master? He's
just where the doctors left 'im, sittin' in his easy-
chair and looking out o' window."
"Was it was it all right, do you think?" asked
the girl, hesitatingly.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 27
"Now, lovey, don't ask me about doctors, 'cos I
don't know nothin' and wants to know nothin', for
they be close-tongued folk who never sez what they
thinks lest they get their blessed selves into hot
water. And whether it's all right or all wrong, I
couldn't tell ye, for the two o' them went out to-
gether, and Mr. Slpwton sez 'Good-arternoon, Miss
Friday!' quite perlite like, and the other gentleman
he lifts 'is 'at quite civil, so I should say 'twas all
wrong. For if you mark me, lovey, men's allus ex-
tra perlite when they thinks there's goin' to be
trouble, hopin' they'll get somethin' for theirselves
out of it,"
Innocent hardly waited to hear her last words.
"I'm going to Dad," she said, quickly, and disap-
peared.
Priscilla Friday stopped for a minute in the roll-
ing-out of her pastry. Some great stress of thought
appeared to be working behind her wrinkled brow,
for she shook her head, pursed her lips and rolled
up her eyes a great many times. Then she gave a
short sigh and went on with her work.
The farmhouse was a rambling old place, full of
quaint corners, arches and odd little steps up and
down leading to cupboards, mysterious recesses and
devious winding ways which turned into dark nar-
row passages, branching right and left through the
whole breadth of the house. It was along one of
these that Innocent ran swiftly on leaving the
kitchen, till she reached a closed door, where paus-
ing, she listened a moment then, hearing no sound,
opened it and went softly in. The room she en-
tered was filled with soft shadows of the gradually
falling dusk, yet partially lit by a golden flame of
the after-glow which shone through the open lat-
ticed window from the western sky. Close to the
waning light sat the master of the farm, still clad
28 INNOCENT
in his smock frock, with his straw hat on the table
beside him and his stick leaning against the arm
of his chair. He was very quiet, so quiet, that a
late beam of the sun, touching the rough silver
white of his hair, seemed almost obtrusive, as sug-
gesting an interruption to the moveless peace of
his attitude. Innocent stopped short, with a tremor
of nervous fear.
"Dad!" she said, softly.
He turned towards her.
"Ay, lass! What is it?"
She did not answer, but came up and knelt down
beside him, taking one of his brown wrinkled hands
in her own and caressing it. The silence between
them was unbroken for quite two or three minutes;
then he said:
"Last load in all safe?"
"Yes, Dad!"
"Not a drop of rain to wet it, and no hard words
to toughen it, eh?"
"No, Dad."
She gave the answer a little hesitatingly. She was
thinking of Ned Landon. He caught the slight fal-
ter in her voice and looked at her suspiciously.
"Been quarrelling with Robin?"
"Dear Dad, no! We're the best of friends."
He loosened his hand from her clasp and patted
her head with it.
"That's right! That's as it should be ! Befriends
with Robin, child! Be friends! be lovers!"
She was silent. The after-glow warmed the tints
of her hair to russet-gold and turned to a deeper
pink the petals of the roses in the wreath she wore.
He touched the blossoms and spoke with great gen-
tleness.
"Did Robin crown thee?"
She looked up, smiling.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 29
"No, it's Larry's wreath."
"Larry! Ay, poor Larry! A good lad but he
can eat for two and only work for one. Tis the way
of men nowadays!"
Another pause ensued, and the western gold of
the sky began to fade into misty grey.
"Dad," said the girl then, in a low tone "Do
tell me what did the London doctor say?"
He lifted his head quickly, and his old eyes for a
moment flashed as though suddenly illumined by a
flame from within.
"Say! What should he say, lass, but that I am
old and must expect to die? It's natural enough
only I haven't thought about it. It's just that I
haven't thought about it!"
"Why should you think about it?" she asked,
with quick tenderness "You will not die yet not
for many years. You are not so very old. And you
are strong."
He patted her head again.
"Poor little wilding!" he said "If you had your
way I should live for ever, no doubt! But an' you
were wise with modern wisdom, you would say I
had already lived too long!"
For answer, she drew down his hand and kissed it.
"I do not want any modern wisdom," she said
"I am your little girl and I love you!"
A shadow flitted across his face and he moved
uneasily. She looked up at him.
"You will not tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"All that the London doctor said."
He was silent for a minute's space then he an-
swered.
"Yes, I will tell you, but not now. To-night after
supper will be time enough. And then "
"Yes then?" she repeated, anxiously.
30 INNOCENT
"Then you shall know you will have to know
Here he broke off abruptly. "Innocent!"
"Yes, Dad?"
"How old are you now?"
"Eighteen."
"Ay, so you are!" And he looked at her search-
ingly. "Quite a woman! Time flies! You're old
enough to learn "
"I have always tried to learn," she said "and I
like studying things out of books "
"Ay ! But there are worse things in life than ever
were written in books," he answered, wearily
"things that people hide away and are ashamed to
speak of! Ay, poor wilding! Things that I've tried
to keep from you as long as possible but time
presses, and, I shall have to speak "
She looked at him earnestly. Her face paled and
her eyes grew dark and wondering.
"Have I done anything wrong?" she asked.
"You? No! Not you! You are not to blame,
child! But you've heard the law set out in church
on Sundays that The sins of the fathers shall be
visited on the children even unto the third and
fourth generation.' You've heard that?"
"Yes, Dad!"
"Ay! and who dare say the fourth generation
are to blame! Yet, though they are guiltless, they
suffer most! No just God ever made such a law,
though they say 'tis God speaking. 7 say 'tis the
devil!"
His voice grew harsh and loud, and finding his
stick near his chair, he took hold of it and struck it
against the ground to emphasise his words.
"I say 'tis the devil!"
The girl rose from her kneeling attitude and put
her arms gently round his shoulders.
"There, Dad!" she said soothingly, "Don't
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 31
worry! Church and church things seem to rub you
up all the wrong way! Don't think about them!
Supper will be ready in a little while and after sup-
per we'll have a long talk. And then you'll tell me
what the doctor said."
His angry excitement subsided suddenly and his
head sank on his breast.
"Ay ! After supper. Then then I'll tell you what
the doctor said."
His speech faltered. He turned and looked out
on the garden, full of luxuriant blossom, the colours
of which were gradually merging into indistinguish-
able masses under the darkening grey of the dusk.
She moved softly about the room, setting things
straight, and lighting two candles in a pair of tall
brass candlesticks which stood one on either side of
a carved oak press. The room thus illumined showed
itself to be a roughly-timbered apartment in the
style of the earliest Tudor times, and all the furni-
ture in it was of the same period. The thick gate-
legged table the curious chairs, picturesque, but
uncomfortable the two old dower chests the
quaint three-legged stools and upright settles, were
a collection that would have been precious to the
art dealer and curio hunter, as would the massive
eight-day clock with its grotesquely painted face,
delineating not only the hours and days but the
lunar months, and possessing a sonorous chime
which just now struck eight with a boom as deep
as that of a cathedral bell. The sound appeared to
startle the old farmer with a kind of shock, for he
rose from his chair and grasped his stick, looking
about him as though for the moment uncertain of
his bearings.
"How fast the hours go by!" he muttered, dream-
ily. "When we're young they don't count but
when we're old we know that every hour brings us
32 INNOCENT
nearer to the end the end, the end of all! Another
night closing hi and the last load cleared from the
field Innocent ! "
The name broke from his lips like a cry of suf-
fering, and she ran to him trembling.
"Dad, dear, what is it?"
He caught her outstretched hands and held them
close.
"Nothing nothing!" he answered, drawing his
breath quick and hard "Nothing, lass! No pain
no- not that ! I'm only frightened ! Frightened !
think of it! me frightened who never knew fear!
And I I wouldn't tell it to anyone but you I'm
afraid of what's coming of what's bound to come!
'Twould always have come, I know but I never
thought about it it never seemed real! It never
seemed real "
Here the door opened, admitting a flood of cheer-
ful light from the outside passage, and Robin Clif-
ford entered.
"Hullo, Uncle! Supper's ready!"
The old man's face changed instantly. Its worn
and scared expression smoothed into a smile, and,
loosening his hold of Innocent, he straightened him-
self and stood erect.
"All right, my lad! You've worked pretty late!"
"Yes, and we've not done yet. But we shall fin-
ish stacking to-morrow," answered Clifford "Just
now we're all tired and hungry."
"Don't say you're thirsty!" said the old farmer,
his smile broadening. "How many barrels have been
tapped to-day?"
"Oh, well! You'd better ask Landon," and Clif-
ford's light laugh had a touch of scorn in it, "he's
the man for the beer! I hardly ever touch it
Innocent knows that."
"More work's done on water after all," said Joce-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 33
lyn. "The horses that draw for us and the cattle
that make food for us prove that. But we think
we're a bit higher than the beasts, and some of us
get drunk to prove it! That's one of our strange
ways as men! Come along, lad! And you, child,"
here he turned to Innocent "run and tell Pris-
cilla we're waiting in the Great Hall."
He seemed to have suddenly lost all feebleness,
and walked with a firm step into what he called the
Great Hall, which was distinguished by this name
from the lesser or entrance hall of the house. It
was a nobly proportioned, very lofty apartment,
richly timbered, the roof being supported by huge
arched beams curiously and intricately carved.
Long narrow boards on stout old trestles occupied
the centre, and these were spread with cloths of
coarse but spotlessly clean linen and furnished with
antique plates, tankards and other vessels of pewter
which would have sold for a far larger sum in the
market than solid silver. A tall carved chair was
set at the head of the largest table, and in this Far-
mer Jocelyn seated himself. The men now began
to come in from the fields in their work-a-day
clothes, escorted by Ned Landon, their only at-
tempt at a toilet having been a wash and brush
up in the outhouses; and soon the hall presented a
scene of lively bustle and activity. Priscilla, en-
tering it from the kitchen with her two assistants,
brought in three huge smoking joints on enormous
pewter dishes, then followed other good things of
all sorts, vegetables, puddings, pasties, cakes and
fruit, which Innocent helped to set out all along the
boards in tempting array. It was a generous sup-
per fit for a "Harvest Home" yet it was only Far-
mer Jocelyn's ordinary way of celebrating the end
of the haymaking, the real harvest home was an-
other and bigger festival yet to come. Robin Clif-
34 INNOCENT
ford began to carve a sirloin of beef, Ned Landon,
who was nearly opposite him, actively apportioned
slices of roast pork, the delicacy most favoured by
the majority, and when all the knives and forks were
going and voices began to be loud and tongues dis-
cursive, Innocent slipped into a chair by Farmer
Jocelyn and sat between him and Priscilla. For not
only the farm hands but all the servants on the place
were at table, this haymaking supper being the an-
nual order of the household. The girl's small deli-
cate head, with its coronal of wild roses, looked
strange and incongruous among the rough specimens
of manhood about her, and sometimes as the
laughter became boisterous, or some bucolic witti-
cism caught her ear, a faint flush coloured the pale-
ness of her cheeks and a little nervous tremor ran
through her frame. She drew as closely as she could
to the old farmer, who sat rigidly upright and quiet,
eating nothing but a morsel of bread with a bowl
of hot salted milk Priscilla had put before him. Beer
was served freely, and was passed from man to man
in leather "blackjacks" such as were commonly used
in olden times, but which are now considered mere
curiosities. They were, however, ordinary wear at
Briar Farm, and had been so since very early days.
The Great Hall was lighted by tall windows reach-
ing almost to the roof and traversed with shafts
of solid stonework; the one immediately opposite
Farmer Jocelyn's chair showed the very last parting
glow of the sunset like a dull red gleam on a dark
sea. For the rest, thick home-made candles of a
torch shape fixed into iron sconces round the walls
illumined the room, and burned with unsteady flare,
giving rise to curious lights and shadows as though
ghostly figures were passing to and fro, ruffling the
air with their unseen presences. Priscilla Priday,
her wizened yellow face just now reddened to the
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 35
tint of a winter apple by her recent exertions in the
kitchen, was not so much engaged in eating her
supper as in watching her master. Her beady
brown eyes roved from him to the slight delicate
girl beside him with inquisitive alertness. She felt
and saw that the old man's thoughts were far away,
and that something of an unusual nature was
troubling his mind. Priscilla was an odd-looking
creature but faithful ; her attachments were strong,
and her dislikes only a shade more violent, and
just now she entertained very uncomplimentary
sentiments towards "them doctors" who had, as she
surmised, put her master out of sorts with himself,
and caused anxiety to the "darling child," as she
invariably called Innocent when recommending her
to the guidance of the Almighty in her daily and
nightly prayers. Meanwhile the noise at the sup-
per table grew louder and more incessant, and sun-
dry deep potations of home-brewed ale began to do
their work. One man, seated near Ned Landon, was
holding forth in very slow thick accents on the sub-
ject of education:
"Be eddicated!" he said, articulating his words
with difficulty, "That's what I says, boys! Be ed-
dicated! Then everything's right for us! We can
kick all the rich out into the mud and take their
goods and enjoy 'em for ourselves. Eddication does
it! Makes us all we wants to be, members o' Par-
li'ment and what not! I've only one boy, but he'll
be eddicated as his father never was "
"And learn to despise his father!" said Robin,
suddenly, his clear voice ringing out above the
other's husky loquacity. "You're right! That's the
best way to train a boy in the way he should go!"
There was a brief silence. Then came a fresh
murmur of voices and Ned Landon's voice rose
above them.
36 INNOCENT
"I don't agree with you, Mr. Clifford," he said
"There's no reason why a well-educated lad should
despise his father."
"But he often does," said Robin "reason or no
reason."
"Well, you're educated yourself," retorted Lan-
don, with a touch of envy, "You won a scholarship
at your grammar school, and you've been to a Uni-
versity."
"What's that done for me?" demanded Robin,
carelessly, "Where has it put me? Just nowhere,
but exactly where I might have stood all the time.
I didn't learn farming at Oxford!"
"But you didn't learn to despise your father
either, did you, sir?" queried one of the farm hands,
respectfully.
"My father's dead," answered Robin, curtly,
"and I honour his memory."
"So your own argument goes to the wall!" said
Landon. "Education has not made you think less
of him."
"In my case, no," said Robin, "but in dozens
of other cases it works out differently. Besides,
you've got to decide what education is. The man
who knows how to plough a field rightly is as use-
fully educated as the man who knows how to read
a book, in my opinion."
"Education," interposed a strong voice, "is first
to learn one's place in the world and then know
how to keep it!"
All eyes turned towards the head of the table. It
was Farmer Jocelyn who spoke, and he went on
speaking:
"What's called education nowadays," he said, "is
a mere smattering and does no good. The children
are taught, especially in small villages like ours,
by men and women who often know less than the
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 37
children themselves. What do you make of Dan-
vers, for example, boys?"
A roar of laughter went round the table.
"Danvers!" exclaimed a huge red-faced fellow at
the other end of the board, "Why he talks yer 'ead
off about what he's picked up here and there like,
and when I asked him to tell me where my son is
as went to Mexico, blowed if he didn't say it was a
town somewheres near New York!"
Another roar went round the table. Farmer
Jocelyn smiled and held up his hand to enjoin si-
lence.
"Mr. Danvers is a teacher selected by the Govern-
ment," he then observed, with mock gravity. "And
if he teaches us that Mexico is a town near New
York, we poor ignorant farm-folk are bound to be-
lieve him!"
They all laughed again, and he continued:
"I'm old enough, boys, to have seen many changes,
and I tell you, all things considered, that the worst
change is the education business, so far as the
strength and the health of the country goes. That,
and machine work. When I was a youngster, nearly
every field-hand knew how to mow, now we've
trouble enough to find an extra man who can use a
scythe. And you may put a machine on the grass
as much as you like, you'll never get the quality
that you'll get with a well-curved blade and a man's
arm and hand wielding it. Longer work maybe,
and risk of rain but, taking the odds for and
against, men are better than machines. Forty years
we've scythed the grass on Briar Farm, and haven't
we had the finest crops of hay in the county?"
A chorus of gruff voices answered him:
"Ay, Mister Jocelyn!"
"That's right!"
"I never 'member more'n two wet seasons and
38 INNOCENT
then we got last load in 'tween showers," observed
one man, thoughtfully.
"There ain't never been nothin' wrong with
Briar Farm hay crops anyway all the buyers knows
that for thirty mile round," said another.
"And the wheat and the corn and the barley and
the oats the same," struck in the old farmer again
"all the seed sown by hand and the harvest reaped
by hand, and every man and boy in the village or
near it has found work enough to keep him in his
native place, spring, summer, autumn and winter,
isn't that so?"
"Ay, ay!"
"Never a day out o' work!"
"Talk of unemployed trouble," went on Jocelyn,
"if the old ways were kept up and work done in the
old fashion, there'd be plenty for all England's men
to do, and to feed fair and hearty! But the idea
nowadays is to rush everything just to get finished
with it, and then to play cards or football, and get
drunk till the legs don't know whether it's land or
water they're standing on! It's the wrong way
about, boys! It's the wrong way about! You may
hurry and scurry along as fast as you please, but you
miss most good things by the way ; and there's only
one end to your racing the grave ! There's no such
haste to drop into that, boys! It'll wait! It's al-
ways waiting! And the quicker you go the quicker
you'll get to it! Take time while you're young!
That time for me is past!"
He lifted his head and looked round upon them
all. There was a strange wild look in his old eyes,
and a sudden sense of awe fell on the rest of the
company. Farmer Jocelyn seemed all at once re-
moved from them to a height of dignity above his
ordinary bearing. ( Innocent's rose-crowned head
drooped, and tears sprang involuntarily to her eyes.
She tried to hide them, not so well, however, but
that Priscilla Friday saw them.
"Now, lovey child!" she whispered, "Don't take
on! It's only the doctors that's made him low like
and feelin' blue, and he ain't takin' sup or morsel,
but we'll make him have a bite in his own room
arterwards. Don't you swell your pretty eyes and
make 'em red, for that won't suit me nor Mr. Robin
neither, come, come! that it won't!"
Innocent put one of her little hands furtively un-
der the board and pressed Priscilla's rough knuckles
tenderly, but she said nothing. The silence was
broken by one of the oldest men present, who rose,
tankard in hand.
"The time for good farming is never past!" he
said, in a hearty voice "And no one will ever beat
Farmer Jocelyn at that! Full cups, boys! And the
master's health ! Long life to him!"
The response was immediate, every man rising to
his feet. None of them were particularly unsteady
except Ned Landon, who nearly fell over the table as
he got up, though he managed to straighten himself
in time.
"Farmer Jocelyn!"
"To Briar Farm and the master!"
"Health and good luck!"
These salutations were roared loudly round the
table, and then the whole company gave vent to a
hearty 'Hip-hip-hurrah!' that roused echoes from
the vaulted roof and made its flaring lights trem-
ble.
"One more!" shouted Landon, suddenly, turning
his flushed face from side to side upon those im-
mediately near him "Miss Jocelyn!"
There followed a deafening volley of cheering,
tankards clinked together and shone in the flicker-
ing light and every eye looked towards the girl,
40 INNOCENT
who, colouring deeply, shrank from the tumult
around her like a leaf shivering in a storm-wind.
Robin glanced at her with a half- jealous, half-anx-
ious look, but her face was turned away from him.
He lifted his tankard and, bowing towards her,
drank the contents. When the toast was fully
pledged, Farmer Jocelyn got up, amid much clap-
ping of hands, stamping of feet and thumping on
the boards. He waited till quiet was re-
stored, and then, speaking in strong resonant ac-
cents, said:
"Boys, I thank you ! You're all boys to me, young
and old, for you've worked on the farm so long that
I seem to know your faces as well as I know the
shape of the land and the trees on the ridges.
You've wished me health and long life and I take
it that your wishes are honest but I've had a long
life already and mustn't expect much more of it.
However, the farm will go on just the same whether
I'm here or elsewhere, and no man that works well
on it will be turned away from it, that I can prom-
ise you! And the advice I've always given to you
I give to you again, stick to the land and the work
of the land ! There's nothing finer in the world than
the fresh air and the scent of the good brown earth
that gives you the reward of your labour, always
providing it is labour and not 'scamp' service.
When I'm gone you'll perhaps remember what I
say, and think it not so badly said either. I thank
you for your good wishes and" here he hesitated
"my little girl here thanks you too. Next tune you
make the hay if I'm not with you I ask you to
be as merry as you are to-night and to drink to my
memory! For whenever one master of Briar Farm
has gone there's always been another in his place!
and there always will be!" He paused, then lift-
ing a full tankard which had been put beside him,
he drank a few drops of its contents "God bless
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 41
you all! May you long have the will to work and
the health to enjoy the fruits of honest labour!"
There was another outburst of noisy cheering, fol-
lowed by a new kind of clamour.
"A song!"
"A song!"
"Who'll begin?"
"Where's Steevy?"
"Little Steevy!"
"Steevy! Wheer be ye got to?" roared one old
fellow with very white hair and a very red face
"ye're not so small as ye can hide in yer mother's
thimble!"
A young giant of a man stood up in response to
this adjuration, blushing and smiling bashfully.
"Here I be!"
"Sing away, lad, sing away!"
"Wet yer pipe, and whistle!"
"Tune up, my blackbird!"
Steevy, thus adjured, straightened himself to his
full stature of over six feet and drank off a cupful
of ale. Then he began in a remarkably fine and
mellow tenor:
*" Would you choose a wife
For a happy life,
Leave the town and the country take;
Where Susan and Doll,
And Jenny and Moll,
Follow Harry and John,
While harvest goes on,
And merrily, merrily rake!
"The lass give me here,
As brown as my beer,
That knows how to govern a farmj
That can milk a cow,
Or farrow a sow,
Make butter and cheese,
And gather green peas,
And guard the poultry from harm.
* Old Song. 1740.
42 INNOCENT
-"This, this is the girl,
Worth rubies and pearl,
The wife that a home will make!
We farmers need
No quality breed,
But a woman that's won
While harvest goes on,
And we merrily, merrily rake!
A dozen or more stentorian voices joined in the
refrain :
"A woman that's won
While harvest goes on,
And we merrily, merrily rake."
"Bravo!"
"Good for you, Steevy!"
"First-class!"
"Here's to you, my lad!"
The shouting, laughter and applause continued
for many minutes, then came more singing of songs
from various rivals to the tuneful Steevy. And
presently all joined together in a boisterous chorus
which ran thus:
"A glass is good and a lass is good,
And a pipe is good in cold weather,
The world is good and the people are good,
And we're all good fellows together!"
In the middle of this performance Farmer Joce-
lyn rose from his place and left the hall, Innocent
accompanying him. Once he looked back on the
gay scene presented to him the disordered supper-
table, the easy lounging attitudes of the well-fed
men, the flare of the lights which cast a ruddy glow
on old and young faces and sparkled over the bur-
nished pewter, then with a strange yearning pain
in his eyes he turned slowly away, leaning on the
arm of the girl beside him, and went, leaving the
merry-makers to themselves.
CHAPTER III
RETURNING to the room where he had sat alone
before supper, he sank heavily into the armchair he
had previously occupied. The window was still
open, and the scent of roses stole in with every
breath of air, a few stars sparkled in the sky, and
a faint line of silver in the east showed where the
moon would shortly rise. He looked out in dreamy
silence, and for some minutes seemed too much ab-
sorbed in thought to notice the presence of Inno-
cent, who had seated herself at a small table near
him, on which she had set a lit candle, and was
quietly sewing. She had forgotten that she still
wore the wreath of wild roses, the fragile flow-
ers were drooping and dying in her hair, and as she
bent over her work and the candlelight illumined
her delicate profile, there was something almost
sculptural in the shape of the leaves as they en-
circled her brow, making her look like a young
Greek nymph or goddess brought to life out of the
poetic dreams of the elder world. She was troubled
and anxious, but she tried not to let this seem ap-
parent. She knew from her life's experience of his
ways and whims that it was best to wait till the
old man chose to speak, rather than urge him into
talk before he was ready or willing. She glanced
up from her sewing now and again and saw that
he looked very pale and worn, and she felt that he
suffered. Her tender young heart ached with long-
ing to comfort him, yet she knew not what she
should say. So she sat quiet, as full of loving
43
44 INNOCENT
thoughts as a Madonna lily may be full of the dew
of Heaven, yet mute as the angelic blossom itself.
Presently he moved restlessly, and turning in his
chair looked at her intently. The fixity of his gaze
drew her like a magnet from her work and she put
down 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, the working clothes can go!"
She was at his side instantly and with her light
deft fingers soon disembarrassed him of the homely
garment. When it was taken off a noticeable trans-
formation was effected in his appearance. Clad in
plain dark homespun, which was fashioned into a
suit somewhat resembling the doublet and hose of
olden times, his tall thin figure had a distinctly
aristocratic look and bearing which was lacking
when clothed in the labourer's garb. Old as he was,
there were traces of intellect and even beauty in
his features, his head, on which the thin white
hair shone like spun silver, was proudly set on his
shoulders hi that unmistakable line which indicates
the power and the will to command; and as he
unconsciously drew himself upright he looked more
like some old hero of a hundred battles than a far-
mer whose chief pride was the excellence of his
crops and the prosperity of his farm managed by
hand work only. For despite the jeers of his neigh-
bours, who were never tired of remonstrating with
him for not "going with the times," Jocelyn had one
fixed rule of farming, and this was that no modern
machinery should be used on his lands. He was
the best employer of labour for many and many a
mile round, and the most generous as well as the
most exact paymaster, and though people asserted
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 45
that there was no reasonable explanation for it,
nevertheless it annually happened that the hand-
sown, hand-reaped crops of Briar Farm were finer
and richer in grain and quality, and of much better
value than the machine-sown, machine-reaped crops
of any other farm in the county or for that matter
in the three counties adjoining. He stood now for
a minute or two watching Innocent as she looked
carefully over his smock frock to see if there were
any buttons missing or anything to be done re-
quiring the services of her quick needle and thread,
then as she folded it and put it 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 with the bread and touching no
morsel. Art not well?"
She looked up at him and tried to smile, but tears
came into her eyes despite 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 do you
good."
He still bent his brows thoughtfully upon her.
"Presently presently not now," he answered.
"Come and sit by me at the window and I'll tell
you I'll tell you what you must know. But see
you, child, if you are going to cry or fret, you will
be no help to me and 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 arms and kissed her.
"That's a brave girl!" And holding her by the
hand he drew her towards the open window "Look
out there! See how the stars shine! Always the
46 INNOCENT
same, no matter what happens to us poor folk down
here, they twinkle as merrily over our graves as
over our gardens, and yet if we're to believe what
we're taught nowadays, they're all worlds more or
less like our own, full of living creatures that suffer
and die like ourselves. It's a queer plan of the Al-
mighty, to keep on making wonderful and beautiful
things just to destroy them! There seems no sense
in it!"'
He sat down again in his chair, and she, obeying
his gesture, brought a low stool to his feet and set-
tled herself upon it, leaning against his knee. Her
face was upturned to his and the flickering light of
the tall candles quivering over it showed the wistful
tender watchfulness of its expression 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've got
my death-warrant. Slowton was not sure about me,
but this man, ill as he is himself, has had too
much experience to make mistakes. There's no cure
for me. I may last out another twelve months
perhaps not so long 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, then
she set her lips hard.
"I don't believe it," she said, adding with stronger
emphasis "I won't believe 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 that has to
be done, 'twill almost take me that time to look
the thing square in the face and give up the farm
for good." Here he paused with a kind of horror
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 47
at his own words "Give up the farm! My God!
And for ever! 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 the doctor says. He's wrong
I'm sure he's wrong! You'll live for many and
many a happy year yet oh yes, Dad, you will! I'm
sure of it! You won't die, 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 than I 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 end is swift for some it's slow some
know when it's coming some don't, the last are
the happiest. I've been told, you see, and it's no
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 you promised 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 noth-
ing to cry for," and she fondled his hand in her own
"The doctors are wrong. You're only a little
weak and run down you'll be all right with rest
and care 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 though he were puzzled or in pain.
"That's foolish talk," he said, with some harsh-
ness; "You've got trouble to meet, and you must
meet it. I'm bound to show you trouble but I
can show you a way out of it as well."
He paused a moment, a light wind outside the
48 INNOCENT
lattice swayed a branch of roses to and fro, shak-
ing out their perfume as from a swung censer.
"The first thing I must tell you," he went on,
"is about yourself. It's time 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 his face a sudden sense of
fear ran through her nerves like the chill of an icy
wind and she waited dumbly for his next word. He
gripped her hand hard in his own.
"Now hear me out, child!" he said "Let me
speak on without interruption, or I shall never get
through the tale. Perhaps I ought to have 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 you and Robin! your mar-
riage bells have rung through my brain many and
many a night for the past two years and never a bit
nearer are you to the end of your wooing, such fan-
ciful children as you both are! And you're so long
about it and I've so short a time before me that
I've made up my mind it's best to let you have all
the truth about yourself before anything happens
to me. All the truth about yourself as far as I
know it."
He paused again. She was perfectly silent. She
trembled a little wondering what she was going to
hear. It must be something dreadful, she thought,
something for which she was unprepared, some-
thing that might, perhaps, like a sudden change in
the currents of the air, create darkness where there
had been sunshine, storm instead of calm. His grip
on her hand was strong enough to hurt her, but she
was not conscious of it. She only wished he would
tell her the worst at once and quickly. The worst,
for she instinctively felt there was no best.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 49
"It was eighteen years ago this very haymaking
time," he went on, with a dreamy retrospective air
as though he were talking to himself, "The last
load had been taken in. Supper was over. The
men had gone home, Priscilla was clearing the
great hall, when there came on a sudden storm
just a flash of lightning I can see it now, striking
a blue fork across the windows a clap of thunder
and then a regular downpour of rain. Heavy rain,
too, buckets-full for it washed the yard out and
almost swamped the garden. I didn't think much
about it, the hay was hauled in dry, and that was
all my concern. I stood under a shed in the yard
and watched the rain falling in straight sheets out
of a sky black as pitch I could scarcely see my
own hand if I stretched it out before me, the night
was so dark. All at once I heard the quick gallop
of a horse's hoofs some way off, then the sound
seemed to die away, but presently I heard the hoofs
coming at a slow steady pace down our muddy old
by-road no one can gallop that, in any weather.
And almost before I knew how it came there, the
horse was standing at the farmyard gate, with a
man in the saddle carrying a bundle in front of him.
He was the handsomest fellow I ever saw, and when
he dismounted and came towards me, and took off
his cap in the pouring rain and smiled at me, I was
fairly taken with his looks. I thought he must be
something of a king or other great personage by his
very manner. 'Will you do me a kindness?' he said,
as gently as you please. 'This is a farm, I believe.
I want to leave my little child here in safe keeping
for a night. She is such a baby, I cannot carry
her any further through this storm.' And he put
aside the wrappings of the bundle he carried and
showed me a small pale infant asleep. 'She's
50 INNOCENT
motherless/ he added, 'and I'm taking her to my
relatives. But I have to ride some distance from
here on very urgent business, and if you will look
after her for to-night I'll call for her to-morrow.
Poor little innocent! She's hungry and fretful. I
haven't anything to give her and the storm looks
like continuing. Will you let her stay with you?'
'Certainly!' said I, without thinking a bit further
about it. 'Leave her here by all means. We'll see
she gets all she wants.' He gave me the child at
once and said in a very soft voice: 'You are most
generous! "verily I have not found so great a faith,
no not in Israel!" You're sure you don't mind?'
'Not at all,' I answered him, 'You'll come back for
her to-morrow, of course.' He smiled and said
'Oh yes, of course! To-morrow! I'm really very
much obliged to you!' Then he seemed to think
for a moment and put his hand in his pocket, but
I stopped him 'No, sir,' I said, 'excuse me, but I
don't want any pay for giving a babe a night's
shelter.' He looked at me very straight with his
big clear hazel eyes, and then shook hands with me.
'You're an honest fellow,' he said, and he stooped
and kissed the child he had put into my arms. 'I'm
extremely sorry to trouble you, but the storm is too
much for this helpless little creature.' 'You yourself
are wet through/ I interrupted. 'That doesn't mat-
ter/ he answered, 'for me nothing matters. Thank
you a thousand times! Good-night!' The rain
was coming down faster than ever and I stepped
back into the shed, covering the child up so that the
drifting wet should 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 sad-
dle and in the blur of rain I saw horse and man turn
away. He waved his hand once and his handsome
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 51
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 the house 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 a will and as far as she dared called
me a fool for my pains. And so I was, for when I
came to think of it the man was a stranger to me,
and I had never asked him his name. It was just
his handsome face and the way he had with him
that had thrown me off my guard as it were; so I
stood and looked silly enough, I suppose, while Pris-
cilla fussed about with the baby, for it had wak-
ened and was crying. Well!" and Jocelyn heaved
a short sigh "That's about all! We never saw the
man again, and the child was never claimed; but
every six months I received a couple of bank-notes
in an envelope bearing a different postmark each
time, with the words: Tor Innocent' written in-
side "
She uttered a quick, almost terrified exclamation,
and drew her hand away from his.
"Every six months for a steady twelve years on
end," he went on, "then the money suddenly
stopped. Now you understand, don't you? You
were the babe that was left with me that stormy
night; and you've been with me ever 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 was trembling violently, and her
face seemed changed from the round and mobile
softness of youth to the worn pallor and thinness of
age. Her eyes were luminous with a hard and fe-
verish brilliancy.
"You you don't know whose child I am!" she
52 INNOCENT
repeated, "I am not yours and you don't know
you don't know who I belong to! Oh, it hurts me!
it hurts me, Dad! I can't realise it! I thought
you were my own dear father! and I loved you!
oh, how much I loved you! yet you have deceived
me all along!"
"I haven't deceived you," he answered, impa-
tiently. "I've done all for the 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 un-
controllable sob broke from her.
"Not even a name!" she murmured "Not even
a name!"
With a sudden impulsive movement she knelt
down in front of him like a child about to say its
prayers.
"Oh, help me, Dad!" she said, piteously "Com-
fort me! Say something anything! I feel so lost
so astray! All my life seems gone! I can't re-
alise it! Yes, I know! You have been very kind,
all kindness, just as if I had been your own little
girl. Oh, why did you tell me I was your own? I
was so proud to be your daughter and now it's
so hard so hard! Only a few moments ago I was
a happy girl with a loving father as I thought now
I know I'm only a poor nameless creature, de-
serted 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's not 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 all along. You're innocent, like your
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 53
name, and you've been a blessing to me all your
days, the farm has been brighter for your living on
it, so you've no cause to worry me or yourself
about what's past long ago and can't be helped. No
one knows your story but Priscilla, no one need
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. "You were 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 mother died when I was born."
He avoided her eyes.
"Well, that was true, or so I suppose," he said.
"The man who brought you said you were mother-
less. But I I have never married."
"Then how could you tell Robin and everyone
else about here that I was your daughter?"
He grew suddenly angry.
"Child, don't stare at me like that!" he exclaimed,
with all an old man's petulance. "It doesn't mat-
ter what I said I had to let the neighbours 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 upright posture.
"What now?" he demanded, almost fiercely
"What trouble are you going to make of it?"
"Oh, if it were only trouble," she exclaimed, for-
lornly. "It's far worse! You've branded me with
shame! Oh, I understand now! I understand at
54 INNOCENT
last why the girls about here never make friends
with me! I understand why Robin seems to pity
me so much! Oh, how shall I ever look 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 see no shame in laying claim
to a child of my own, even though the claim has no
reality. Look at the thing squarely! Here comes a
strange man with 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 the baby
was mine than leave it to the neighbours to say the
same thing and that I wouldn't acknowledge it. Not
a soul about here would have believed the true story
if I had told it to them. I've done everything for
the best I know I have. And there'll never be a
word said if you marry Robin."
Her face had grown very white. She put up her
hand to her head and her fingers touched the faded
wreath of wild roses. She drew it off and let it drop
to the ground.
"I shall never marry Robin!" she said, with quiet
firmness "And I will not be considered your ille-
gitimate child any longer. It's cruel of you to have
made me live on a lie! yes, cruel! though you've
been so kind in other things. You don't know who
my parents were you've no right to think they were
not honest!"
He stared at her amazed. For the first time in
eighteen years he began to see the folly of what he
had thought his own special wisdom. This girl, with
her pale sad face and steadfast eyes, confronted
him with the calm reproachful air of an accusing
angel.
"What right have you?" she went on. "The
man who brought me to you, poor wretched me!
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 55
if he was my father, may have been good and true.
He said I was motherless; and he, or someone else,
sent you money for me till I was twelve. That did
not look as if I was forgotten. Now you say the
money has stopped well! my father may be
dead." Her lips quivered and a few tears rolled
down her cheeks. "But there is nothing in all this
that should make you think me basely born, noth-
ing that should have persuaded you to put shame
upon me!"
He was taken aback for a minute by her words
and attitude then he burst 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 put it! What
man alive would leave his own lawful child at a
strange farm off 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
fine gentleman or other who had just the one idea
in his head to get rid of an encumbrance. And so
he got rid of you "
"Don't go over the whole thing again!" she in-
terrupted, with weary patience "I was an encum-
brance to him I've been an encumbrance to you.
I'm sorry! But in no case had you the right to set
a stigma on me which 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 what I'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.
56 INNOCENT
"No! I can't do that! Not just yet! You see,
it's all so unexpected things have changed alto-
gether in a moment. I can't feel quite 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 more concerned about yourself than about
me. A few minutes ago you only cared to know
what the doctors thought of my illness, but now it's
nothing to you that I shall be dead in a year. Your
mind is set on your own trouble, or what you choose
to consider a trouble."
She heard him like one in a dream. It seemed
very strange to her that he should have dealt her a
blow and yet reproach her for feeling the force of it.
"I am sorry!" she said, patiently. "But this is
the first time I have known real trouble you forget
that! and you must forgive me if I am stupid
about it. And if the doctors really believe you are
to die in a year I wish I could take your place, Dad !
I would rather be dead than live 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 writ-
ten on every slip of paper that came with each six
months' money," he answered, testily. "That's the
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 despair-
ingly, and then was silent for a minute's space.
"Could you not have done that much for me?" she
asked, plaintively, at last "Would it have been
impossible?"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 57
He was vaguely ashamed. Her eyes, pure as a
young child's, were fixed upon him in appealing
sorrow. He began to feel that he had done her a
grievous wrong, though he had never entirely re-
alised it till now. He answered her with some hesi-
tation and an effort at excuse.
"Not impossible no, maybe I could have bap-
tised you myself if I had thought about it. 'Tis but
a sprinkle of water and 'In the Name of the Father,
Son, and Holy Ghost/ But somehow I never wor-
ried my head for as long as you were a baby I
looked for the man who brought you day after day,
and in my own mind left all that sort of business
for him to attend to and when he didn't come and
you grew older, it fairly slipped my remembrance
altogether. I'm not fond of the Church or its ways,
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're innocent of the faults of
your parents whatever they were, and you're inno-
cent of my blunders. You're free to make your own
life pleasant if you'll only put a bright face on it
and make the best of an awkward business."
She was silent, standing before him like a little
statuesque figure of desolation.
"As for the tale I told the neighbours," he went
on "it was the best thing I could think of. If I
had said you were a child I had taken in to adopt,
not one of them would have believed me; 'twas a
case of telling one lie or t'other, the real truth being
so queer and out of the 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 young huzzies in the village that aren't
friendly to you, but you may take it that it's more
out of jealousy of Robin's liking for you than any-
thing else. Robin loves you you know he does;
58 INNOCENT
and all you've got to do is to make him happy.
Marry him, for the farm will be his when I'm dead,
and it'll give me a bit of comfort to feel that you're
settled down with him in the old home. For then
I know it'll go on just the same just the same "
His words trailed off brokenly. His head sank on
his chest, and some slow tears made their difficult
way out of his eyes and dropped on his silver beard.
She watched him with a certain grave compas-
sion, but she did not at once go, as she would usually
have done, to put her arms round his neck and
console him. She seemed to herself removed miles
away from him and from everything she had ever
known. Just then there was a noise of rough 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 his former feebleness, he rose and
confronted her.
"No, there's nothing I want!" he said, in ve-
hement tones "Nothing but peace and quietness!
I've told you your story, and you take it ill. But
recollect, 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, against whom
never a word has been said but this, which is a lie
that my child, mine! was born out of wedlock!
I suffered this against myself solely for your sake
I, who never wronged a woman in my life! I, who
never loved but one woman, who died before I had
the chance to marry her! and I say and I swear
I have sacrificed something of my name and repu-
tation to you! So that you need not make trouble
because you also share in the sacrifice. Robin thinks
you're my child, and therefore his cousin, and he
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 59
counts nothing against you, for he knows that what
the world 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 tell you! and if
you care to make me happy, marry him before I die.
Then you'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 her bosom, trying to still the loud
and rapid beating of her heart, but her eyes were
very bright and steadfast.
"Yes? What then?" she asked, calmly.
"Then you must take the consequences," he
said. "The farm and all I have is left to Robin,
he's my dead sister's son and my nearest living
kin "
"I know that," she said, simply, "and I'm glad
he has everything. It's right that it should be so.
I shall not be in his way. You may be quite sure
of that. But I shall not marry him."
"You'll not marry him?" he repeated, and seemed
about to give vent to a torrent of invective when
she extended her hands clasped together appeal-
ingly.
"Dad, don't be angry! it only hurts you and it
does no good ! Just before supper you reminded me
of what they say in Church that 'the sins of the
fathers should be visited on the children, even unto
the third and fourth generation.' I will not visit
the sin of my father and mother on anyone. If you
will give me a little time I shall be able to under-
stand everything more clearly, and perhaps bear it
better. I want to be quite by myself. I must try
to see myself as I am, unbaptised, nameless, for-
saken! And if there is anything to be done with
this wretched little self of mine, it is I that must do
it. With God's help!" She sighed, and her lips
60 INNOCENT
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 up her
needlework.
"Shall I get you some wine, Dad?" she asked pres-
ently 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 usual tenderness? Why should you
change to me? Your own father if he was your
father deserted you, and I have been a father to
you in his place, wronging my own honourable name
for your sake; am I to blame for this? Be reason-
able! The laws of man are one thing and the laws
of God x are another, and we have to make the best
we can of ourselves between the two. There's many
a piece of wicked injustice in the world, but nothing
more wicked than to set shame or blame on a child
that's born without permit of law or blessing of
priest. For it's not the child's fault, it's brought
into the world without its own consent, and yet the
world fastens a slur upon it! That's downright bm-
tal and senseless! for if there is any blame at-
tached to the matter it should be fastened on the
parents, and not on the child. And that's what I
thought when you were left on my hands I took
the blame of you on myself, and I was careful that
you should be treated with every kindness and re-
spect mind you that! Respect! There's not a
man on the place that doesn't doff his cap to you;
and you've been as my own daughter always. You
can't deny it! And more than that" here his strong
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 61
voice faltered "I've loved you! yes I've loved
you, little Innocent "
She looked up in his face and saw it quivering
with suppressed emotion, and the strange cold sense
of aloofness that had numbed her senses suddenly
gave way like snow melting in the spring. In a mo-
ment she was in his arms, weeping out her pent-up
tears on his breast, and he, stroking her soft hair,
soothed her with every tender and gentle word he
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 thee an-
other in his place! Make the best of that gift be-
fore it be taken from thee!"
CHAPTER IV
THERE are still a few old houses left in rural Eng-
land which are as yet happily unmolested by the
destroying ravages of modern improvement, and
Briar Farm was one of these. History and romance
alike had their share in its annals, and its title-deeds
went back to the autumnal days of 1581, when the
Duke of Anjou came over from France to England
with a royal train of noblemen and gentlemen in
the hope to espouse the greatest monarch of all
time, "the most renowned and victorious" Queen
Elizabeth, whose reign has clearly demonstrated to
the world how much more ably a clever woman
can rule a country than a clever man, if she is left
to her own instinctive wisdom and prescience. No
king has ever been wiser or more diplomatic than
Elizabeth, and no king has left a more brilliant re-
nown. As the coldest of male historians is bound to
admit, "her singular powers of government were
founded equally on her temper and on her capacity.
Endowed with a great command over herself, she
soon obtained an uncontrolled ascendant over her
people. Few sovereigns of England succeeded to
the throne under more difficult circumstances, and
none ever conducted the government with such uni-
form success and felicity." Had Elizabeth been
weak, the Duke of Anjou might have realised his
ambitious dream, with the unhappiest results for
England; and that he fortunately failed was en-
tirely due to her sagacity and her quick perception
of his irresolute and feeble character. In the sump-
62
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 63
tuous train attendant upon this "Petit Grenouille,"
as he styled himself in one of his babyish epistles to
England's sovereign majesty, there was a certain
knight more inclined to the study of letters than
to the breaking of lances, the Sieur Amadis de
Jocelin, who being much about the court in the wake
of his somewhat capricious and hot-tempered mas-
ter, came, unfortunately for his own peace of mind,
into occasional personal contact with one of the most
bewitching young women of her time, the Lady
Penelope Devereux, afterwards Lady Rich, she in
whom, according to a contemporary writer, "lodged
all attractive graces and beauty, wit and sweetness
of behaviour which might render her the mistress
of all eyes and hearts." Surrounded as she was by
many suitors, his passion was hopeless from the
first, and that he found it so was evident from the
fact that he suddenly disappeared from the court
and from his master's retinue, and was never heard
of by the great world again. Yet he was not far
away. He had not the resolution to leave England,
the land which enshrined the lady of his love,
and he had lost all inclination to return to France.
He therefore retired into the depths of the sweet
English country, among the then unspoilt forests
and woodlands, and there happening to find a small
manor-house for immediate sale, surrounded by a
considerable quantity of land, he purchased it for
the ready cash he had about him and settled down
in it for the remainder of his life. Little by little,
such social ambitions as he had ever possessed left
him, and with every passing year he grew more and
more attached to the simplicity and seclusion of his
surroundings. He had leisure for the indulgence of
his delight in books, and he was able to give the rein
to his passion for poetry, though it is nowhere re-
corded that he ever published the numerous essays,
64 INNOCENT
sonnets and rhymed pieces which, written in the
picturesque caligraphy of the period, and roughly
bound by himself in sheepskin, occupied a couple
of shelves in his library. He entered with anima-
tion and interest into the pleasures of farming and
other agricultural pursuits, and by-and-bye as tune
went on and the former idol of his dreams descended
from her fair estate of virtue and scandalised the
world by her liaison with Lord Mount joy, he ap-
pears to have gradually resigned the illusions of his
first love, for he married a simple village girl, re-
markable, so it was said, for her beauty, but more
so for her skill in making butter and cheese. She
could neither read nor write, however, and the tradi-
tions concerning the Sieur Amadis relate that he
took a singular pleasure in teaching her these ac-
complishments, as well as in training her to sing
and to accompany herself upon the lute in a very-
pretty manner. She made him an excellent wife,
and gave him no less than six children, three boys
and three girls, all of whom were brought up at
home under the supervision of their father and
mother, and encouraged to excel in country pursuits
and to understand the art of profitable farming. It
was in their days that Briar Farm entered upon its
long career of prosperity, which still continued.
The Sieur Amadis died in his seventieth year, and
by his own wish, expressed in his "Last Will and
Testament," was buried in a sequestered spot on his
own lands, under a stone slab which he had himself
fashioned, carving upon it his recumbent figure in
the costume of a knight, a cross upon his breast and
a broken sword at his side. His wife, though sev-
eral years younger than himself, only lived a twelve-
month after him and was interred by his side. Their
resting-place was now walled off, planted thickly
with flowers, and held sacred by every succeeding
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 65
heir to the farm as the burial-place of the first
Jocelyns. Steadily and in order, the families spring-
ing from the parent tree of the French knight
Amadis had occupied Briar Farm in unbroken suc-
cession, and through three centuries the property
had been kept intact, none of its possessions being
dispersed and none of its land being sold. The
house was practically in the same sound condition
as when the Sieur Amadis fitted and furnished it
for his own occupation, there was the same pewter,
the same solid furniture, the same fine tapestry, pre-
served by the careful mending of many hundreds of
needles worked by hands long ago mingled with the
dust of the grave, and, strange as it may seem to
those who are only acquainted with the flimsy man-
ufactures of to-day, the same stout hand-wrought
linen, which, mended and replenished each year,
lasted so long because never washed by modern
methods, but always by hand in clear cold running
water. There were presses full of this linen, deli-
ciously scented with lavender, and there were also
the spinning-wheels that had spun the flax and the
hand-looms on which the threads had been woven.
These were witnesses to the days when w r omen, in-
stead of gadding abroad, were happy to be at home
when the winter evenings seemed short and bright
because as they sat spinning by the blazing log fire
they were cheerful in their occupation, singing
songs and telling stories and having so much to do
that there was no time to indulge in the morbid
analysis of life and the things of life which in our
present shiftless day perplex and confuse idle and
unhealthy brains.
And now after more than three centuries, the di-
rect male line of Amadis de Jocelin had culminated
in Hugo, commonly called Farmer Jocelyn, who, on
account of some secret love disappointment, the de-
66 INNOCENT
tails of which he had never told to anyone, had re-
mained unmarried. Till the appearance on the
scene of the child, Innocent, who was by the village
folk accepted and believed to be the illegitimate
offspring of this ill-starred love, it was tacitly un-
derstood that Robin Clifford, his nephew, and the
only son of his twin sister, would be the heir to
Briar Farm; but when it was seen how much the
old man seemed to cling to Innocent, and to rely
upon her ever tender care of him, the question arose
as to whether there might not be an heiress after
all, instead of an heir. And the rustic wiseacres
gossiped, as is their wont, watching with no small
degree of interest the turn of events which had
lately taken place in the frank and open admiration
and affection displayed by Robin for his illegiti-
mate cousin, as it was thought she was, and as
Farmer Jocelyn had tacitly allowed it to be under-
stood. If the two young people married, everybody
agreed it would be the right thing, and the best pos-
sible outlook for the continued prosperity of Briar
Farm. For after all, it was the farm that had to be
chiefly considered, so they opined, the farm was
an historic and valuable property as well as an ex-
cellent paying concern. The great point to be
attained was that it should go on as it had always
gone on from the days of the Sieur Amadis, and
that it should be kept in the possession of the same
family. This at any rate was known to be the
cherished wish of old Hugo Jocelyn, though he was
not given to any very free expression of his feelings.
He knew that his neighbours envied him, watched
him and commented on his actions, he knew also
that the tale he had told them concerning Innocent
had to a great extent whispered away his own good
name and fastened a social slur upon the girl, yet
he could not, according to his own views, have seen
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 67
any other way out of the difficulty. The human
world is always wicked- tongued ; and it is common
knowledge that any man or woman introducing an
"adopted" child into a family is at once accused,
whether he or she be conscious of the accusation or
not, of passing off his own bastard under the "adop-
tion" pretext. Hugo Jocelyn was fairly certain that
none of his neighbours would credit the romantic
episode of the man on horseback arriving in a storm
and leaving a nameless child on his hands. The
story was quite true, but truth is always precisely
what people refuse to believe.
The night on which Innocent had learned her own
history for the first time was a night of consummate
beauty in the natural world. When all the gates
and doors of the farm and its outbuildings had been
bolted and barred for the night, the moon, almost
full, rose in a cloudless heaven and shed pearl-white
showers of radiance all over the newly-mown and
clean-swept fields, outlining the points of the old
house gables and touching with luminous silver the
roses that clambered up the walls. One wide lat-
ticed window was open to the full inflowing of the
scented air, and within its embrasure sat a lonely
little figure in a loose white garment with hair tum-
bling carelessly over its shoulders and eyes that were
wet with tears. The clanging chime of the old clock
below stairs had struck eleven some ten minutes
since, and after the echo of its bell had died away
there had followed a heavy and intense silence. The
window looked not upon the garden, but out upon
the fields and a suggestive line of dark foliage edg-
ing them softly in the distance, away down there,
under a huge myriad-branched oak, slept the old
knight Sieur Amadis de Jocelin and his English
rustic wife, the founders of the Briar Farm family.
The little figure in the dark embrasure of the win-
68 INNOCENT
dow clasped its white hands and turned its weeping
eyes towards that ancient burial-place, and the
moon-rays shone upon its fair face with a silvery
glimmer, giving it an almost spectral pallor.
"Why was I ever born?" sighed a trembling voice
"Oh, dear God! Why did you let it be?"
The vacant air, the vacant fields looked blankly
irresponsive. They had no sympathy to give, they
never have. To great Mother Nature it is not im-
portant how or why a child is born, though she
occasionally decides that it shall be of the greatest
importance how and why the child shall live. What
does it matter to the forces of creative life whether
it is brought into the world "basely," as the phrase
goes, or honourably? The child exists, it is a hu-
man entity a being full of potential good or evil,
and after a certain period of growth it stands
alone, and its parents have less to do with it than
they imagine. It makes its own circumstances and
shapes its own career, and in many cases the less it
is interfered with the better. But Innocent could
not reason out her position in any cold-blooded or
logical way. She was too young and too unhappy.
Everything that she had taken pride in was swept
from her at once. Only that very morning she had
made one of her many pilgrimages down to the ven-
erable oak beneath whose trailing branches the
Sieur Amadis de Jocelin lay, covered by the broad
stone slab on which he had carved his own likeness,
and she had put a little knot of the "Glory" roses
between his mailed hands which were folded over
the cross on his breast, and she had said to the silent
effigy:
"It is the last day of the haymaking, Sieur Ama-
dis! You would be glad to see the big crop going
in if you were here!"
She was accustomed to talk to the old stone
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 69
knight in this fanciful way, she had done so all
her life ever since she could remember. She had
taken an intense pride in thinking of him as her
ancestor; she had been glad to trace her lineage back
over three centuries to the love-lorn French noble
who had come to England in the train of the Due
d'Anjou and now now she knew she had no con-
nection at all with him, that she was an unnamed,
unbaptised nobody an unclaimed waif of human-
ity whom no one wanted! No one in all the world
except Robin! He wanted her; but perhaps
when he knew her true history his love would grow
cold. She wondered whether it would be so. If it
were she would not mind very much. Indeed it
would be best, for she felt she could never marry
him.
"No, not if I loved him with all my heart!" she
said, passionately "Not without a name! not till
I have made a name for myself, if only that were
possible!"
She left the window and walked restlessly about
her room, a room that she loved very greatly be-
cause it had been the study of the Sieur Amadis.
It was a wonderful room, oak-panelled from floor
to ceiling, and there was no doubt about its history,
the Sieur Amadis himself had taken care of. that.
For on every panel he had carved with his own hand
a verse, a prayer, or an aphorism, so that the walls
were a kind of open notebook inscribed with his own
personal memoranda. Over the wide chimney his
coat-of-arms was painted, the colours having faded
into tender hues like those of autumn leaves, and
the motto underneath was "Mon cceur me soutien."
Then followed the inscription:
"Amadis de Jocelin,
Knight of France,
Who here seekynge Forgetfulness did here fynde Peace."
70 INNOCENT
Every night of her life since she could read Inno-
cent had stood in front of these armorial bearings
in her little white night-gown and had conned over
these words. She had taken the memory and tra-
dition of Amadis to her heart and soul. He was her
ancestor, hers, she had always said; she had al-
most learned her letters from the inscriptions he
had carved, and through these she could read old
English and a considerable amount of old French
besides. When she was about twelve years old she
and Robin Clifford, playing about together in this
room, happened to knock against one panel that
gave forth a hollow reverberant sound, and moved
by curiosity they tried whether they could open it.
After some abortive efforts Robin's fingers closed by
chance on a hidden spring, which being thus pressed
caused the panel to fly open, disclosing a narrow se-
cret stair. Full of burning excitement the two chil-
dren ran up it, and to their delight found themselves
in a small square musty chamber in which were two
enormous old dower-chests, locked. Their locks
were no bar to the agility of Robin, who, fetching
a hammer, forced the old hasps asunder and threw
back the lids. The coffers were full of books and
manuscripts written on vellum, a veritable six-
teenth-century treasure-trove. They hastened to
report the find to Farmer Jocelyn, who, though
never greatly taken with books or anything concern-
ing them, was sufficiently interested to go with the
eager children and look at the discovery they had
made. But as he could make nothing of either
books or manuscripts himself, he gave over the
whole collection to Innocent, saying that as they
were found in her part of the house she might keep
them. No one not even Robin knew how much
she had loved and studied these old books, or how
patiently she had spelt out the manuscripts; and
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 71
no one could have guessed what a wide knowledge
of literature she had gained or what fine taste she
had developed from her silent communications with
the parted spirit of the Sieur Amadis and his
poetical remains. She had even arranged her
room as she thought he might have liked it, in se-
vere yet perfect taste. It was now her study as it
had been his, the heavy oak table had a great
pewter inkstand upon it and a few loose sheets of
paper with two or three quill pens ready to hand,
some quaint old vellum-bound volumes and a brown
earthenware bowl full of "Glory" roses were set just
where they could catch the morning sunshine
through the lattice window. One side of the room
was lined with loaded bookshelves, and at its fur-
thest end a wide arch of roughly hewn oak dis-
closed a smaller apartment where she slept. Here
there was a quaint little four-poster bedstead, hung
with quite priceless Jacobean tapestry, and a still
more rare and beautiful work of art an early
Italian mirror, full length and framed in silver, a
curio worth many hundreds of pounds. In this mir-
ror Innocent had surveyed herself with more or less
disfavour since her infancy. It was a mirror that
had always been there a mirror in which the wife
of the Sieur Amadis must have often gazed upon
her own reflection, and hi which, after her, all the
wives and daughters of the succeeding Jocelyns had
seen their charms presented to their own admira-
tion. The two old dower-chests which had been
found in the upper chamber were placed on either
side of the mirror, and held all the simple home-
made garments which were Innocent's only wear. A
special joy of hers lay in the fact that she knew the
management of the secret sliding panel, and that
she could at her own pleasure slip up the mysterious
stairway with a book and be thus removed from all
72 INNOCENT
the household in a solitude which to her was ideal.
To-night as she wandered up and down her room
like a little distraught ghost, all the happy and ro-
mantic associations of the home she had loved and
cherished for so many years seemed cut down like a
sheaf of fair blossoms by a careless reaper, a sor-
did and miserable taint was on her life, and she
shuddered with mingled fear and grief as she realised
that she had not even the simple privilege of ordi-
nary baptism. She was a nameless waif, dependent
on the charity of Farmer Jocelyn. True, the old
man had grown to love her and she had loved him
ah! let the many tender prayers offered up for
him in this very room bear witness before the throne
of God to her devotion to her "father" as she had
thought him! And now if what the doctors said
was true if he was soon to die what would be-
come of her? She wrung her little hands in uncon-
scious agony.
"What shall I do?" she murmured, sobbingly "I
have no claim on him, or on anyone in the world!
Dear God, what shall I do?"
Her restless walk up and down took her into her
sleeping-chamber, and there she lit a candle and
looked at herself in the old Italian mirror. A little
woe-begone creature gazed sorrowfully back at her
from its shining surface, with brimming eyes and
quivering lips, and hair all tossed loosely away from
a small sad face as pale as a watery moon, and she
drew back from her own reflection with a gesture of
repugnance.
"I am no use to anybody in any way," she said,
despairingly "I am not even good-looking. And
Robin poor foolish Robin! called me 'lovely' this
afternoon! He has no eyes!"
Then a sudden thought flew across her brain of
Ned Landon. The tall powerful-looking brute loved
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 73
her, she knew. Every look of his told her that his
very soul pursued her with a reckless and relentless
passion. She hated hihi, she trembled even now
as she pictured his dark face and burning eyes; he
had annoyed and worried her in a thousand ways
ways that were not sufficiently open in their offence
to be openly complained of, though had Farmer
Jocelyn's state of health given her less cause for
anxiety she might have said something to him which
would perhaps have opened his eyes to the situa-
tion. But not now, not now could she appeal to
anyone for protection from amorous insult. For
who was she what was she that she should resent
it? She was nothing! a mere stray child whose
parents nobody knew, without any lawful guardian
to uphold her rights or assert her position. No won-
der old Jocelyn had called her "wilding" she was
indeed a "wilding" or weed, growing up unwanted
in the garden of the world, destined to be pulled out
of the soil where she had flourished and thrown con-
temptuously aside. A wretched sense of utter help-
lessness stole over her, of incapacity, weakness and
loneliness. She tried to think, to see her way
through the strange fog of untoward circumstance
that had so suddenly enshrouded her. What would
happen when Farmer Jocelyn died? For one thing
she would have to quit Briar Farm. She could not
stay in it when Robin Clifford was its master. He
would marry, of course ; he would be sure to marry ;
and there would be no place for her in his home.
She would have to earn her bread; and the only
way to do that would be to go out to service. She
had a good store of useful domestic knowledge,
she could bake and brew, and wash and scour; she
knew how to rear poultry and keep bees; she could
spin and knit and embroider; indeed her list of
household accomplishments would have startled any
74 INNOCENT
girl fresh out of a modern Government school, where
things that are useful in life are frequently forgot-
ten, and things that are not by any means necessary
are taught as though they were imperative. One
other accomplishment she had, one that she hardly
whispered to herself she could write, write what
she herself called "nonsense." Scores of little poems
and essays and stories were locked away in a small
old bureau in a corner of the room, confessions and
expressions of pent-up feeling which, but for this
outlet, would have troubled her brain and hindered
her rest. They were mostly, as she frankly admit-
ted to her own conscience, in the "style" of the Sieur
Amadis, and were inspired by his poetic suggestions.
She had no fond or exaggerated idea of their merit,
they were the result of solitary hours and long
silences in which she had felt she must speak to
someone, exchange thoughts with someone, or
suffer an almost intolerable restraint. That "some-
one" was for her the long dead knight who had come
to England in the train of the Due d'Anjou. To
him she spoke, to him she told all her troubles
but to no one else did she ever breathe her thoughts,
or disclose a line of what she had written. She had
often wondered whether, if she sent these strug-
gling literary efforts to a magazine or newspaper,
they would be accepted and printed. But she never
made the trial, for the reason that such newspaper
literature as found its way into Briar Farm filled
her with amazement, repulsion and disgust. There
was nothing in any modern magazine that at all re-
sembled the delicate, pointed and picturesque
phraseology of the Sieur Amadis! Strange, coarse
slang-words were used, and the news of the day
was slung together in loose ungrammatical sentences
and chopped-up paragraphs of clumsy construction,
lacking all pith and eloquence. So, repelled by the
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 75
horror of twentieth-century "style," she had hidden
her manuscripts deeper than ever in the old bureau,
under little silk sachets of dried rose-leaves and
lavender, as though they were love-letters or old
lace. And when sometimes she shut herself up and
read them over she felt like one of Hamlet's "guilty
creatures sitting at a play." Her literary attempts
seemed to reproach her for then* inadequacy, and
when she made some fresh addition to her store of
written thoughts, her crimes seemed to herself
doubled and weighted. She would often sit musing,
with a little frown puckering her brow, wondering
why she should be moved to write at all, yet wholly
unable to resist the impulse.
To-night, however, she scarcely remembered these
outbreaks of her dreaming fancy, the sordid, hard,
matter-of-fact side of life alone presented itself to
her depressed imagination. She pictured herself
going into service as what? Kitchen-maid, prob-
ably, she was not tall enough for a house-parlour-
maid. House-parlourmaids were bound to be effec-
tive, even dignified, in height and appearance.
She had seen one of these superior beings in church
on Sundays a slim, stately young woman with
waved hair and a hat as fashionable as that worn
by her mistress, the Squire's lady. With a deepen-
ing sense of humiliation, Innocent felt that her very
limitation of inches was against her. Could she be
a nursery-governess? Hardly; for though she liked
good-tempered, well-behaved children, she could not
even pretend to endure them when they were other-
wise. Screaming, spiteful, quarrelsome children were
to her less interesting than barking puppies or
squealing pigs ; besides, she knew she could not be
an efficient teacher of so much as one accomplish-
ment. Music, for instance; what had she learned
of music? She could play on an ancient spinet
76 INNOCENT
which was one of the chief treasures of the "best
parlour" of Briar Farm, and she could sing old bal-
lads very sweetly and plaintively, but of "tech-
nique" and "style" and all the latter-day methods
of musical acquirement and proficiency she was ab-
solutely ignorant. Foreign languages were a dead
letter to her except old French. She could under-
stand that; and Villon's famous verses, "Ou sont
les neiges d'antan?" were as familiar to her as Her-
rick's "Come, my Corinna, let us go a-maying."
But, on the whole, she was strangely and poorly
equipped for the battle of life. Her knowledge of
baking, brewing, and general housewifery would
have stood her in good stead on some Colonial set-
tlement, but she had scarcely heard of these far-
away refuges for the destitute, as she so seldom read
the newspapers. Old Hugo Jocelyn looked upon the
cheap daily press as "the curse of the country," and
never willingly allowed a newspaper to come into
the living-rooms of Briar Farm. They were rele-
gated entirely to the kitchen and outhouses, where
the farm labourers smoked over them and discussed
them to their hearts' content, seldom venturing,
however, to bring any item of so-called "news" to
their master's consideration. If they ever chanced
to do so, he would generally turn round upon them
with a few cutting observations, such as,
"How do you know it's true? Who gives the
news? Where's the authority? And what do I
care if some human brute has murdered his wife
and blown out his own brains? Am I going to be
any the better for reading such a tale? And if one
Government is in or t'other out, what does it mat-
ter to me, or to any of you, so long as you can work
and pay your way? The newspapers are always
trying to persuade us to meddle in other folks's
business; I say, take care of your own affairs!
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 7T
serve God and obey the laws of the country, and
there won't be much going wrong with you ! If you
must read, read a decent book something that will
last not a printed sheet full of advertisements
that's fresh one day and torn up for waste paper the
next!"
Under the sway of these prejudiced and arbitrary
opinions, it was not possible for Innocent to have
much knowledge of the world that lay outside Briar
Farm. Sometimes she found Priscilla reading an
old magazine or looking at a picture-paper, and she
would borrow these and take them up to her own
room surreptitiously for an hour or so, but she was
always more or less pained and puzzled by their con-
tents. It seemed to her that there were an ex-
traordinary number of pictures of women with
scarcely any clothes on, and she could not under-
stand how they managed to be pictured at all in
such scanty attire.
"Who are they?" she asked of Priscilla on one
occasion "And how is it that they are photo-
graphed like this? It must be so shameful for
them!"
Priscilla explained as best she could that they
were "dancers and the like."
"They lives by their legs, lovey!" she said
soothingly "It's only their legs that gits them their
bread and butter, and I s'pose they're bound to show
'em off. Don't you worry 'ow they gits done ! You'll
never come across any of 'em!"
Innocent shut her sensitive mouth in a firm,
proud line.
"I hope not!" she said.
And she felt as if she had almost wronged the
sanctity of the little study which had formerly be-
longed to the Sieur Amadis by allowing such pic-
tures to enter it. Of course she knew that dancers
78 INNOCENT
and actors, both male and female, existed, a whole
troupe of them came every year to the small theatre
of the country town which, by breaking out into an
eruption of new slate-roofed houses among the few
remaining picturesque gables and tiles of an earlier
period, boasted of its "advancement" some eight or
ten miles away ; but her "father," as she had thought
him, had an insurmountable objection to what he
termed "gadding abroad," and would not allow her
to be seen even at the annual fair in the town, much
less at the theatre. Moreover, it happened once
that a girl in the village had run away with a stroll-
ing player and had gone on the stage, an incident
which had caused a great sensation in the tiny wood-
encircled hamlet, and had brought all the old women
of the place out to their doorsteps to croak and
chatter, and prognosticate terrible things in the fu-
ture for the eloping damsel. Innocent alone had
ventured to defend her.
"If she loved the man she was right to go with
him," she said.
"Oh, don't talk to me about love!" retorted Pris-
cilla, shaking her head "That's fancy rubbish!
You know naught about it, dearie! On the stage
indeed! Poor little hussy! She'll be on the street
in a year or two, God help her!"
"What is that?" asked Innocent. "Is it to be a
beggar?"
Priscilla made no reply beyond her usual sniff,
which expressed volumes.
"If she has found someone who really cares for
her, she will never want," Innocent went on, gently.
"No man could be so cruel as to take away a girl
from her home for his own pleasure and then leave
her alone in the world. It would be impossible!
You must not think such hard things, Priscilla!"
And, smiling, she had gone her way, while Pris-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 79
cilia, shaking her head again, had looked after her,
dimly wondering how long she would keep her faith
in men.
On this still moonlight night, when the sadness of
her soul seemed heavier than she could bear, her
mind suddenly reverted to this episode. She thought
of the girl who had run away ; and remembered that
no one in the village had ever seen or heard of her
again, not even her patient hard-working parents to
whom she had been a pride and joy.
"Now she had a real father and mother!" she
mused, wistfully "They loved her and would have
done anything for her yet she ran away from them
with a stranger! I could never have done that!
But I have no father and no mother no one but
Dad! ah! how I have loved Dad! and yet I
don't belong to him and when he is dead "
Here an overpowering sense of calamity swept
over her, and dropping on her knees by the open
window she laid her head on her folded arms and
wept bitterly.
A voice called her in subdued accents once or
twice, "Innocent! Innocent!" but she did not hear.
Presently a rose flung through the window fell on
her bent head. She started up, alarmed.
"Innocent!"
Timidly she leaned out over the window-sill, look-
ing down into the dusky green of clambering foliage,
and saw a familiar face smiling up at her. She
uttered a soft cry.
"Robin!"
"Yes it's Robin!" he replied. "Innocent, what's
the matter? I heard you crying!"
"No no!" she answered, whisperingly "It's
nothing! Oh, Robin! why are you here at this
time of night? Do go away!"
"Not I!" and Robin placed one foot firmly on the
80 INNOCENT
tough and gnarled branch of a giant wistaria that
was trained thickly all over that side of the house
"I'm coming up!"
"Oh, Robin!" And straightway Innocent ran
back into her room, there to throw on a dark cloak
which enveloped her so completely that only her
small fair head showed above its enshrouding folds,
then returning slowly she watched with mingled
interest and trepidation the gradual ascent of her
lover, as, like another Romeo, he ascended the natu-
ral ladder formed by the thick rope-like twisted
stems of the ancient creeper, grown sturdy with
years and capable of bearing a much greater weight
than that of the light and agile young man, who,
with a smile of amused triumph, at last brought
himself on a level with the window-sill and seated
himself on its projecting ledge.
"I won't come in," he said, mischievously
"though I might! if I dared! But I mustn't break
into my lady's bower without her sovereign per-
mission! I say, Innocent, how pretty you look!
Don't be frightened! dear, dear little girl, you
know I wouldn't touch so much as a hair of your
sweet little head! I'm not a brute and though
I'm longing to kiss you I promise I won't even try!"
She moved away from him into the deeper
shadow, but a ray of the moon showed him her face,
very pale, with a deep sadness upon it which was
strange and new to him.
"Tell me what's wrong?" he asked. "I've been
too wide-awake and restless to go to bed, so I came
out in the garden just to breathe the air and look
up at your window and I heard a sound of sob-
bing like that of a little child who was badly hurt
Innocent!"
For she had suddenly stretched out her hands to
him in impulsive appeal.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 81
"Oh yes that's true! I am badly hurt, Robin!"
she said, in low trembling accents "So badly hurt
that I think I shall never get over it!"
Surprised, he took her hands in his own with a
gentle reverence, though to be able to draw her
nearer to him thus, set his heart beating quickly.
"What is it?" he questioned her, anxiously, as all
unconsciously she leaned closer towards him and he
saw her soft eyes, wet with tears, shining upon him
like stars in the gloom. "Is it bad news of Uncle
Hugo?"
"Bad news of him, but worse of me!" she an-
swered, sighingly. "Oh, Robin, shall I tell you?"
He looked at her tenderly. The dark cloak about
her had fallen a little aside, and showed a gleam of
white neck emerging from snowy drapery under-
neath it was, to his fancy, as though a white rose-
petal had been suddenly and delicately unfurled.
He longed to kiss that virginal whiteness, and trem-
bled at the audacity of his own desire.
"Yes, dear, tell me!" he murmured, abstractedly,
scarcely thinking of what he was saying, and only
conscious of the thrill and ecstasy of love which
seemed to him the one thing necessary for existence
in earth or heaven.
And so, with her hands still warmly held in his,
she told hun all. In a sad voice, with lowered eyes
and quivering lips, she related her plaintive little
history, disclosing her unbaptised shame, her un-
owned parentage, her desperately forlorn and
lonely condition. And Robin listened amazed and
perplexed.
"It seems to be all my fault," concluded Inno-
cent, sorrowfully "and yet it is not really so! Of
course I ought never to have been born but I
couldn't help it, could I? And now it seems quite
wrong for me to even live! I am not wanted and
82 INNOCENT
ever since I was twelve years old your Uncle has
only kept me out of charity "
But at this Robin started as though some one had
struck him.
"Innocent!" he exclaimed "Do not say such a
thing! do not think it! Uncle Hugo has loved
you! and you you have loved him!"
She drew her hands away from his and covered
her face.
"I know! I know!" and her tears fell fast again
"But I am not his, and he is not mine!"
Robin was silent. The position was so unex-
pected and bewildering that he hardly knew what
to say. But chiefly he felt that he must try and
comfort this little weeping angel, who, so far as he
was concerned, held his life subservient to her
charm. He began talking softly and cheerily:
"Why should it matter so much?" he said. "If
you do not know who you are if none of us know
it may be more fortunate for you than you can
imagine! We cannot tell! Your own father may
claim you your own mother such things are quite
possible! You may be like the princess of a fairy-
tale rich people may come and take you away from
Briar Farm and from me and you will be too grand
to think of us any more, and I shall only be the poor
farmer in your eyes you will wonder how you
could ever have spoken to me "
"Robin!" Her hands dropped from her face and
she looked at him in reproachful sadness. "Why
do you say this? You know it could never be true!
never! If I had a father who cared for me, he
would not have forgotten and my mother, if she
were a true mother, would have tried to find me
long ago! No, Robin! I ought to have died when
I was a baby. No one wants me I am a deserted
child 'base-born/ as your Uncle Hugo says, and
of course he is right but the sin of it is not
mine ! "
She had such a pitiful, fragile and fair appear-
ance, standing half in shadow and half in the mys-
tic radiance of the moon, that Robin Clifford's heart
ached with love and longing for her.
"Sin!" he echoed "Sin and you have never met
each other! You are like your name, innocent of all
evil! Oh, Innocent! If you could only care for me
as I care for you!"
She gave a shivering sigh.
"Do you can you care? now?" she asked.
"Of course! What is there in all this story that
can change my love for you? That you are not my
cousin? that my uncle is not your own father?
What does that matter to me? You are someone
else's child, and if we never know who that someone
is, why should we vex ourselves about it? You are
you! you are Innocent! the sweetest, dearest
little girl that ever lived, and I adore you! .What
difference does it make that you are not Uncle
Hugo's daughter?"
"It makes a great difference to me," she answered,
sadly "I do not belong any more to the Sieur Ama-
dis de Jocelin!"
Robin stared, amazed then smiled.
"Why, Innocent!" he exclaimed "Surely you're
not worrying your mi&d over that old knight, dead
and gone more than three hundred years ago ! Dear
little goose! How on earth does he come into this
trouble of yours?"
"He comes in everywhere!" she replied, clasping
and unclasping her hands nervously as she spoke.
"You don't know, Robin! you would never under-
stand! But I have loved the Sieur Amadis ever
since I can remember; I have talked to him and
studied with him! I have read his old books, and
84 INNOCENT
all the poems he wrote and he seemed to be my
friend! I thought I was born of his kindred and
I was proud of it and I felt it would be my duty to
live at Briar Farm always because he would wish his
line quite unbroken and I think perhaps yes, I
think I might have married you and been a good
wife to you just for his sake! and now it is all
spoiled! because though you will be the master of
Briar Farm, you will not be the lineal descendant of
the Sieur Amadis! No, it is finished! all finished
with your Uncle Hugo ! and the doctors say he can
only live a year!"
Her grief was so touching and pathetic that Robin
could not find it in his heart to make a jest of the
romance she had woven round the old French knight
whose history had almost passed into a legend.
After all, what she said was true the line of the
Jocelyn family had been kept intact through three
centuries till now and a direct heir had always in-
herited Briar Farm. He himself had taken a cer-
tain pride in thinking that Uncle Hugo's "love-
child," as he had believed her to be, was at any rate,
love-child or no, born of the Jocelyn blood and
that when he married her, as he hoped and fully
purposed to do, he would discard his own name of
Clifford and take that of Jocelyn, in order to keep
the continuity of associations unbroken as far as
possible. All these ideas were put to flight by Inno-
cent's story, and, as the position became more evi-
dent to him, the smiling expression on his face
changed to one of gravity.
"Dear Innocent," he said, at last "Don't cry!
It cuts me to the heart! I would give my very life
to save you from a sorrow you know I would! If
you ever thought, as you say, that you could or
would marry me for the sake of the Sieur Amadis,
you might just as well marry me now, even though
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 85
the Sieur Amadis is out of it. I would make you so
happy! I would indeed! And no one need ever
know that you are not really the lineal descendant
of the Knight "
She interrupted him.
"Priscilla knows," she said "and, no matter how
you look at it, I am 'base-born.' Your Uncle Hugo
has let all the village folk think I am his illegitimate
child and that is 'base-born' of itself. Oh, it is
cruel! Even you thought so, didn't you?"
Robin hesitated.
"I did not know, dear," he answered, gently "I
fancied "
"Do not deny it, Robin!" she said, mournfully.
"You did think so! Well, it's true enough, I sup-
pose! I am 'base-born' but your uncle is not my
father. He is a good, upright man you can always
be proud of him! He has not sinned, though he
has burdened me with the shame of sin! I think
that is unfair, but I must bear it somehow, and I
will try to be brave. I'm glad I've told you all about
it, and you are very kind to have taken it so well
and to care for me still but I shall never marry
you, Robin! never! I shall never bring my 'base-
born' blood into the family of Jocelyn!"
His heart sank as he heard her and involuntarily
he stretched out his arms in appeal.
"Innocent!" he murmured "Don't be hard upon
me! Think a little longer before you leave me
without any hope! It means so much to my life!
Surely you cannot be cruel? Do you care for me
less than you care for that old knight buried under
his own effigy in the garden? Will you not think
kindly of a living man? a man who loves you be-
yond all things? Oh, Innocent! be gentle, be mer-
ciful!"
She came to him and took his hands in her own.
86 INNOCENT
"It is just because I am kind and gentle and mer-
ciful," she said, in her sweet, grave accents, "that I
will not marry you, dear! I know I am right, and
you will think so too, in time. For the moment you
imagine me to be much better and prettier than I
am and that there is no one like me ! poor Robin !
you are blind! there are so many sweet and
lovely girls, well born, with fathers and mothers
to care for them and you, with your good looks
and kind ways, could marry any one of them and
you will, some day! Good-night, dear! You have
stayed here a long time talking to me! just sup-
pose you were seen sitting on this window-ledge so
late! it is past midnight! what would be said of
me!"
"What could be said?" demanded Robin, de-
fiantly. "I came up here of my own accord, the
blame would be mine!"
She shook her head sadly, smiling a little.
"Ah, Robin! The man is never blamed! It's
always the woman's fault!"
"Where's your fault to-night?" he asked.
"Oh, most plain!" she answered. "When I saw
you coming, I ought to have shut the window, drawn
the curtains, and left you to clamber down the wall
again as fast as you clambered up ! But I wanted
to tell you what had happened and how every-
thing had changed for me and now now that you
know all good-night!"
He looked at her longingly. If she would only
show some little sign of tenderness! if he might
just kiss her hand, he thought! But she withdrew
into the shadow, and he had no excuse for lingering.
"Good-night!" fee said, softly. "Good-night, my
angel Innocent! Good-night, my little love!"
She made no response and moved slowly back-
ward into the room. But as he reluctantly left his
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 87
point of vantage and began to descend, stepping
lightly from branch to branch of the accommodating
wistaria, he saw the shadowy outline of her figure
once more as she stretched out a hand and closed the
lattice window, drawing a curtain across it. With
the drawing of that curtain the beauty of the sum-
mer night was over for him, and poising himself
lightly on a tough stem which was twisted strongly
enough to give him adequate support and which
projected some four feet above the smooth grass
below, he sprang down. Scarcely had he touched
the ground when a man, leaping suddenly out of a
thick clump of bushes near that side of the house,
caught him in a savage grip and shook him with all
the fury of an enraged mastiff shaking a rat. Taken
thus unawares, and rendered almost breathless by
the swiftness of the attack, Clifford struggled in the
grasp of his assailant and fought with him desper-
ately for a moment without any idea of his identity,
then as by a dexterous twist of body he managed
to partially extricate himself, he looked up and saw
the face of Ned Landon, livid and convulsed with
passion.
"Landon!" he gasped "What's the matter with
you? Are you mad?"
"Yes!" answered Landon, hoarsely "And enough
to make me so! You devil! You've ruined the
girl!'.'
With a rapid movement, unexpected by his
antagonist, Clifford disengaged himself and stood
free.
"You lie!' he said "And you shall pay for it!
Come away from the house and fight like a man!
Come into the grass meadow yonder, where no one
can see or hear us. Come!"
Landon paused, drawing his breath thickly, and
looking like a snarling beast baulked of its prey.
88 INNOCENT
"That's a trick!" he said, scornfully "You'll run
away!"
"Come!" repeated Clifford, vehemently "You're
more likely to run away than I am! Come!"
Landon glanced him over from head to foot the
moonbeams fell brightly on his athletic figure and
handsome face then turned on his heel.
"No, I won't!" he said, curtly "I've done all I
want to do for to-night. I've shaken you like the
puppy you are! To-morrow we'll settle our differ-
ences."
For all answer Clifford sprang at him and struck
him smartly across the face. In another moment
both men were engaged in a fierce tussle, none the
less deadly because so silent. A practised boxer and
wrestler, Clifford grappled more and more closely
with the bigger but clumsier man, dragging him
steadily inch by inch further away from the house
as they fought. More desperate, more determined
became the struggle, till by two or three adroit
manoeuvres Clifford got his opponent under him and
bore him gradually to the ground, where, kneeling
on his chest, he pinned him down.
"Let me go!" muttered Landon "You're killing
me!"
"Serve you right!" answered Clifford "You
scoundrel! My uncle shall know of this!"
"Tell him what you like!" retorted Landon,
faintly "I don't care! Get off my chest! you're
suffocating me!"
Clifford slightly relaxed the pressure of his hands
and knees.
"Will you apologise?" he demanded.
"Apologise? for what?"
"For your insolence to me and my cousin."
"Cousin be hanged!" snarled Landon "She's no
more your cousin than I am she's only a nameless
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 89
bastard! I heard her tell you so! And fine airs
she gives herself on nothing!"
"You miserable spy!" and Clifford again held him
down as in a vise "Whatever you heard is none of
your business! Will you apologise?"
"Oh, I'll apologise, if you like! anything to get
your weight off me!" and Landon made an abor-
tive effort to rise. "But I keep my own opinion all
the same!"
Slowly Robin released him, and watched him as
he picked himself up, with an ah* of mingled scorn
and pity. Landon laughed forcedly, passing one
hand across his forehead and staring in a dazed
fashion at the shadows cast on the ground by the
moon.
"Yes I keep my own opinion!" he repeated, stu-
pidly. "You've got the better of me just now but
you won't always, my pert Cock Robin ! You won't
always. Don't you think it! Briar Farm and I
may part company but there's a bigger place than
Briar Farm there's the world! that's a wide field
and plenty of crops growing on it! And the men
that sow those kind of crops and reap them and
bring them in, are better farmers than you'll ever
be! As for your girl!" here his face darkened and
he shook his fist towards the lattice window behind
which slept the unconscious cause of the quarrel
"You can keep her! A nice 'Innocent' she is!
talking with a man in her bedroom after midnight!
why, I wouldn't have her as a gift not now!"
Choking with rage, Clifford sprang towards him
again Landon stepped back.
"Hands off!" he said "Don't touch me! I'm in
a killing mood! I've a knife on me you haven't.
You're the master I'm the man and I'll play fair!
I've my future to think of, and I don't want to start
with a murder!"
90 INNOCENT,
With this, he turned his back and strode off, walk-
ing somewhat unsteadily like a blind man feeling
his way.
Clifford stood for a moment, inert. The angry
blood burned in his face, his hands were involun-
tarily clenched, he was impatient with himself for
having, as he thought, let Eandon off too easily. He
saw at once the possibility of mischief brewing, and
hastily considered how it could best be circum-
vented.
"The simplest way out of it is to make a clean
breast of everything," he decided, at last. "To-
morrow I'll see Uncle Hugo early in the morning
and tell him just what has happened."
Under the influence of this resolve, he gradually
calmed down and re-entered the house. And the
moonlight, widening and then waning over the
smooth and peaceful meadows of Briar Farm, had
it all its own way for the rest of the night, and as it
filtered through the leafy branches of the elms and
beeches which embowered the old tomb of the Sieur
Amadis de Jocelin it touched with a pale glitter the
stone hands of his sculptured effigy, hands that
were folded prayerfully above the motto, "Mon
cceur me soutien!"
CHAPTER V
As early as six o'clock the next morning Innocent
was up and dressed, and, hastening down to the
kitchen, busied herself, as was her usual daily cus-
tom, in assisting Priscilla with the housework and
the preparation for breakfast. There was always
plenty to do, and as she moved quickly to and fro,
fulfilling the various duties she had taken upon her-
self and which she performed with unobtrusive care
and exactitude, the melancholy forebodings of the
past night partially cleared away from her mind.
Yet there was a new expression on her face one of
sadness and seriousness unfamiliar to its almost
child-like features, and it was not easy for her to
smile in her ordinary bright way at the round of
scolding which Priscilla administered every morning
to the maids who swept and scrubbed and dusted
and scoured the kitchen till no speck of dirt was
anywhere visible, till the copper shone like mirrors,
and the tables were nearly as smooth as polished
silver or ivory. Going into the dairy where pans
of new milk stood ready for skimming, and looking
out for a moment through the lattice window, she
saw old Hugo Jocelyn and Robin Clifford walking
together across the garden, engaged in close and
earnest conversation. A little sigh escaped her as
she thought: "They are talking about me!" then,
on a sudden impulse, she went back into the kitchen
where Priscilla was for the moment alone, the other
servants having dispersed into various quarters of
the house, and going straight up to her said, sim-
piy
91
92 INNOCENT
"Priscilla dear, why did you never tell me that I
wasn't Dad's own daughter?"
Priscilla started violently, and her always red face
turned redder, then, with an effort to recover her-
self, she answered
"Lord, lovey! How you frightened me! Why
didn't I tell you? Well, in the first place, 'twasn't
none of my business, and in the second, 'twouldn't
have done any good if I had."
Innocent was silent, looking at her with a piteous
intensity.
"And who is it that's told you now?" went on
Priscilla, nervously "some meddlin' old fool "
Innocent raised her hand, warningly.
"Hush, Priscilla! Dad himself told me "
"Well, he might just as well have kept a still
tongue in his head," retorted Priscilla, sharply.
"He's kept it for eighteen years, an' why he should
let it go wagging loose now, the Lord only knows!
There's no making out the ways of men, they first
plays the wise and silent game like barn-door owls,
then all on a suddint-like they starts cawing gos-
sip for all they're worth, like crows. And what's the
good of tellin' ye, anyway?"
"No good, perhaps," answered Innocent, sorrow-
fully "but it's right I should know. You see, I'm
not a child any more I'm eighteen that's a
woman and a woman ought to know what she
must expect more or less in her life
Priscilla leaned on the newly scrubbed kitchen
table and looked across at the girl with a compas-
sionate expression.
"What a woman must expect in life is good 'ard
knocks and blows," she said "unless she can get a
man to look arter her what's not of the general kick-
ing spirit. Take my advice, dearie! You marry
Mr. Robin! as good a boy as ever breathed he'll
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 93
be a kind fond 'usband to ye, and arter all that's
what a woman thrives best on kindness an'
you've 'ad it all your life up to now "
"Priscilla," interrupted Innocent, decidedly "I
cannot marry Robin! You know I cannot! A poor
nameless girl like me! why, it would be a shame
to him in after-years. Besides, I don't love him
and it's wicked to marry a man you don't love."
Priscilla smothered a sound between a grunt and
a sigh.
"You talks a lot about love, child," she said "but
I'm thinkin' you don't know much about it. Them
old books an' papers you found up in the secret
room are full of nonsense, I'm pretty sure an' if
you believes that men are always sighin' an' dyin'
for a woman, you're mistaken yes, you are, lovey!
They goes where they can be made most comforta-
ble an' it don't matter what sort o' woman gives
the comfort so long as they gits it."
Innocent smiled, faintly.
"You don't know anything about it, Priscilla,"
she answered "You were never married."
"Thank the Lord and His goodness, no!" said
Priscilla, with an emphatic sniff "I've never been
troubled with the whimsies of a man, which is worse
than all the megrims of a woman any day. I've
looked arter Mr. Jocelyn in a way but he's no sort
of a man to worry about he just goes reglar to the
farmin' an' that's all a decent creature always,
an' steady as his own oxen what pulls the plough.
An' when he's gone, if go he must, I'll look arter
you an' Mr. Robin, an' please God, I'll dance your
babies on my old knees " Here she broke off
and turned her head away. Innocent ran to her,
surprised.
"Why, Priscilla, you're crying!" she exclaimed
"Don't do that! Why should you cry?"
94 INNOCENT
"Why indeed!" blubbered Priscilla "Except that
I'm a doiterin' fool! I can't abear the thoughts of
you turnin' yer back on the good that God gives ye,
an' floutin' Mr. Robin, who's the best sort o' man
that ever could fall to the lot of a little tender maid
like you why, lovey, you don't know the wicked-
ness o' this world, nor the ways of it an' you talks
about love as if it was somethin' wonderful an' far
away, when here it is at yer very feet for the pickin'
up! What's the good of all they books ye've bin
readin' if they don't teach ye that the old knight
you're fond of got so weary of the world that arter
tryin' everythin' in turn he found nothin' better
than to marry a plain, straight country wench and
settle down in Briar Farm for all his days? Ain't
that the lesson he's taught ye?"
She paused, looking hopefully at the girl through
her tears but Innocent's small fair face was pale
and calm, though her eyes shone with a brilliancy
as of suppressed excitement.
"No," she said -"He has not taught me that at
all. He came here to 'seek forgetfulness' so it is
said in the words he carved on the panel in his
study, but we do not know that he ever really for-
got. He only 'found peace/ and peace is not happi-
ness except for the very old."
"Peace is not happiness!" re-echoed Priscilla,
staring "That's a queer thing to say, lovey ! What
do you call being happy?"
"It is difficult to explain" and a swift warm
colour flew over the girl's cheeks, expressing some
wave of hidden feeling "Your idea of happiness
and mine must be so different!" She smiled
"Dear, good Priscilla! You are so much more easily
contented than I am!"
Priscilla looked at her with a great tenderness in
her dim old grey eyes.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 95
"See here, lovey!'" she said "You're just like a
young bird on the edge of a nest ready to fly. You
don't know the world nor the ways of it. Oh, my
dear, it ain't all gold harvests and apples ripening
rosy in the sun! You've lived all your life in the
open country, and so you've always had the good
God near you, but there's places where the houses
stand so close together that the sky can hardly make
a patch of blue between the smoking chimneys
like London, for instance ah! that's where you'd
find what the world's like, lovey! where you feels
so lonesome that you wonders why you ever were
born "
"I wonder that already," interrupted the girl,
quickly. "Don't worry me, dear! I have so much
to think about my life seems so altered and strange
I hardly understand myself and I don't know
what I shall do with my future but I cannot I
will not marry Robin!"
She turned away quickly then, to avoid further
discussion.
A little later she went into the quaint oak-
panelled room where the fateful disclosures of the
past night had been revealed to her. Here break-
fast was laid, and the latticed window was set wide
open, admitting the sweet scent of stocks and
mignonette with every breath of the morning air.
She stood awhile looking out on the gay beauty of
the garden, and her eyes unconsciously filled with
tears.
"Dear home!" she murmured "Home that is not
mine that never will be mine ! How I have loved
you! how I shall always love you!"
A slow step behind her interrupted her medita-
tions and she looked around with a smile as timid
as it was tender. There was her "Dad" the same
as ever, yet now to her mind so far removed from
96 INNOCENT
her that she hesitated a moment before giving him
her customary good-morning greeting. A pained
contraction of his brow showed her that he felt this
little difference, and she hastened to make instant
amends.
"Dear Dad!" she said, softly, and she put her
soft arms about him and kissed his cheek "How
are you this morning? Did you sleep well?"
He took her arms from his shoulders, and held her
for a moment, looking at her scrutinisingly from
under his shaggy brows.
"I did not sleep at all," he answered her "I lay
broad awake, thinking of you. Thinking of you,
my little innocent, fatherless, motherless lamb!
And you, child! you did not sleep so well as you
should have done, talking with Robin half the night
out of window!"
She coloured deeply. He smiled and pinched her
crimsoning cheek, apparently well pleased.
"No harm, no harm!" he said "Just two young
doves cooing among the leaves at mating time!
Robin has told me all about it. Now listen, child!
I'm away to-day to the market town there's
seed to buy and crops to sell I'll take Ned Landon
with me " he paused, and an odd expression of
sternness and resolve clouded his features "Yes!
I'll take Ned Landon with me he's shrewd enough
when he's sober and he's cunning enough, too, for
that matter! yes, I'll take him with me. We'll be
off in the dog-cart as soon as breakfast's done. My
tune's getting short, but I'll attend to my own busi-
ness as long as I can I'll look after Briar Farm till
I die and I'll die in harness. There's plenty of
work to do yet plenty of work; and while I'm
away you can settle up things "
Here he broke off, and his eyes grew fixed in a
sudden vacant stare. Innocent, frightened at his
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 97
unnatural look, laid her hand caressingly on his
arm.
"Yes, dear Dad!" she said, soothingly "What is
it you wish me to do?"
The stare faded from his eyeballs, and his face
softened.
"Settle up things," he repeated, slowly, and with
emphasis "Settle up things with Robin. No more
beating about the bush! You talked to him long
enough out of window last night, and mind you!
somebody was listening! That means mischief! /
don't blame you, poor wilding! but remember,
somebody was listening! Now think of that and of
your good name, child ! settle with Robin and we'll
have the banns put up next Sunday."
While he thus spoke the warm rose of her cheeks
faded to an extreme pallor, her very lips grew
white and set. Her hurrying thoughts clamoured
for utterance, she could have expressed in pas-
sionate terms her own bitter sense of wrong and un-
merited shame, but pity for the old man's worn and
haggard look of pain held her silent. She saw and
felt that he was not strong enough to bear any argu-
ment or opposition in his present mood, so she made
no sort of reply, not even by a look or a smile.
Quietly she went to the breakfast table, and busied
herself in preparing his morning meal. He followed
her and sat heavily down in his usual chair, watch-
ing her furtively as she poured out the tea.
"Such little white hands, aren't they?" he said,
coaxingly, touching her small fingers when she gave
him his cup "Eh, wilding? The prettiest lily flow-
ers I ever saw! And one of them will look all the
prettier for a gold wedding-ring upon it! Ay, ay!
We'll have the banns put up on Sunday."
Still she did not speak; once she turned away
her head to hide the tears that involuntarily rose to
98 INNOCENT
her eyes. Old Hugo, meanwhile, began to eat his
breakfast with the nervous haste of a man who
takes his food more out of custom than necessity.
Presently he became irritated at her continued
silence.
"You heard what I said, didn't you?" he de-
manded "And you understood?"
She looked full at him with sorrowful, earnest
eyes.
"Yes, Dad. I heard. And I understood."
He nodded and smiled, and appeared to take it
for granted that she had received an order which it
was her bounden duty to obey. The sun shone
brilliantly in upon the beautiful old room, and
through the open window came a pleasant murmur-
ing of bees among the mignonette, and the whistle
of a thrush in an elm-tree sounded with clear and
cheerful persistence. Hugo Jocelyn looked at the
fair view of the flowering garden and drew his
breath hard in a quick sigh.
"It's a fine day," he said "and it's a fine world!
Ay, that it is! I'm not sure there's a better any-
where! And it's a bit difficult to think of going
down for ever into the dark and the cold, away
from the sunshine and the sky but it's got to be
done!" here he clenched his fist and brought it
down on the table with a defiant blow "It's got to
be done, and I've got to do it! But not yet not
quite yet! I've plenty of time and chance to stop
mischief!"
He rose, and drawing himself up to his full height
looked for the moment strong and resolute. Taking
one or two slow turns up and down the room, he
suddenly stopped in front of Innocent.
"We shall be away all day," he said "I and Ned
Landon. Do you hear?"
There was something not quite natural in the
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 99
tone of his voice, and she glanced up at him in a
little surprise.
"Well, what are you wondering at?" he de-
manded, 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 to-
gether 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 hi 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 God's good blessing of
an honest lad's love and be happy with it! And
when I come home to-night," he paused and ap-
peared 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
passively from his hold, and she never looked up.
100 INNOCENT
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 de-
manded, 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 re-
minds me " Here he came from the door back
into the room again, and going to a quaint old up-
right oaken press that stood in one corner, he un-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 101
locked 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 Clif-
ford 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 Ainadis de
Jocelin ah! but surely it was the spirit of the
Sieur Amadis himself that held her back and pre-
vented her from doing his name and memory griev-
ous 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 noble 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
102 INNOCENT
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 or-
chard." t
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 retreat-
ing 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
sunshine 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.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 103
"I wonder!" she said, half aloud then paused.
The thought in her mind was too daring for utter-
ance. 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 com-
mon 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 high-
est 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 tune 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
assistance she had no money, and no means of ob-
taining 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 manu-
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
104 INNOCENT
new and out of the ordinary but how shall I ever
know!"
Putting the manuscript by with a lingering care,
she went to the window and looked out. The peace-
ful scene was dear and familiar and she already
felt a premonition of the pain she would have to en-
dure 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 found-
ling, deserted by her own parents and left to the
care of strangers, she considered it would be noth-
ing 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
sturdy 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.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 105
"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 fin-
ished all he had to do and turning to her said,
laughingly
"Now I am at your service! You look very seri-
ous! 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-
shiny 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 hang-
ing in such rosy clusters 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 con-
trast. 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 sunshine did good work in calming her
nerves, and she was quite composed when Robin
spoke again.
106 INNOCENT
"You see, dear, I know quite well what is worry-
ing you. I'm worried myself and I'd better tell
you all about it. Last night " he paused.
She looked up at him, quickly.
"Last night? Well?"
"Well Ned Landon was in hiding in the bushes
under your window and he must have been there
all the time we were talking together. How or why
he came there I cannot imagine. But he heard a
good deal and when you shut your window he was
waiting for me. Directly I got down he pounced
on me like a tramp-thief, and now there! don't
look so frightened! he said something that I
couldn't stand, so we had a jolly good fight. He
got the worst of it, I can tell you! He's stiff and
unfit to work to-day that's why Uncle Hugo has
taken him to the town. I told the whole story to
Uncle Hugo this morning and he says I did quite
right. But it's a bore to have to go on 'bossing'
Laadon he bears me a grudge, of course and I
foresee it will be difficult to manage him. He can
hardly be dismissed the other hands would want
to know why ; no man has ever been dismissed from
Briar Farm without good and fully explained rea-
sons. This time no reasons could be given, be-
cause your name might come in, and I won't have
that "
"Oh, Robin, it's all my fault!" she exclaimed.
"If you would only let me go away! Help me do
help me to go away!"
He stared at her, amazed.
"Go away!" he echoed "You! Why, Innocent,
how can you think of such a thing! You are the
very life and soul of the place how can you talk
of going away! No, no! not unless" here he
drew nearer and looked at her steadily and tenderly
in the eyes "not unless you will let me take you
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 107
away! just for a little while! as a bridegroom
takes a bride on a honeymon of love and sunshine
and roses "
He stopped, deterred by her look of sadness.
"Dear Robin/' she said, very gently "would you
marry a girl who cannot love you as a wife should
love? Won't you understand that if I could and did
love you I should be happier than I am? though
now, even if I loved you with all my heart, I would
not marry you. How could I? I am nothing I
have no name no family and can you think that
I would bring shame upon you? No, Robin!
never ! I know what your Uncle Hugo wishes and
oh! if I could only make him happy I would do it!
but I cannot it would be wrong of me and you
would regret it "
"I should never regret it," he interrupted her,
quickly. "If you would be my wife, Innocent, I
should be the proudest, gladdest man alive! Ah,
dear! do put all your fancies aside and try to 4
realise what good you would be doing to the old man
if he felt quite certain that you would be the little
mistress of the old farm he loves so much I will
not speak of myself you do not care for me! but
for him "
She looked up at him with a sudden light in her
eyes.
"Could we not pretend?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, pretend that we're engaged just to satisfy
him. Couldn't you make things easy for me that
way?"
"I don't quite understand," he said, with a puzzled
air "How would it make things easy?"
"Why, don't you see?" and she spoke with hur-
ried eagerness "When he comes home to-night let
108 INNOCENT
him think it's all right and then then I'll run
away by myself and it will be my fault "
"Innocent! What are you talking about?" and
he flushed with vexation. "My dear girl, if you dis-
like me so much that you would rather run away
than marry me, I won't say another word about it.
I'll manage to smooth things over with my uncle for
the present just to prevent his fretting himself
and you shall not be worried "
"You must not be worried either," she said. "You
will not understand, and you do not think! but
just suppose it possible that, after all, my own
parents did remember me at last and came to look
after me and that they were perhaps dreadful
wicked people "
Robin smiled.
"The man who brought you here was a gentle-
man," he said "Uncle Hugo told me so this morn-
ing, and said he was the finest-looking man he had
ever seen."
Innocent was silent a moment.
"You think he was a 'gentleman' to desert his own
child?" she asked.
Robin hesitated.
"Dear, you don't know the world," he said
"There may have been all sorts of dangers and diffi-
culties anyhow, / don't bear him any grudge ! He
gave you to Briar Farm!"
She sighed, and made no response. Inadvertently
they had walked beyond the orchard and were now
on the very edge of the little thicket where the tomb
of the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin glimmered pallidly
through the shadow of the leaves. Innocent quick-
ened her steps.
"Come!" she said.
He followed her reluctantly. Almost he hated
the old stone knight which served her as a subject
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 109
for so many fancies and feelings, and when she
beckoned him to the spot where she stood beside the
recumbent effigy, he showed a certain irritation of
manner which did not escape her.
"You are cross with him!" she said, reproachfully.
"You must not be so. He is the founder of your
family-
"And the finish of it, I suppose!" he answered,
abruptly. "He stands between us two, Innocent!
a cold stone creature with no heart and you prefer
him to me! Oh, the folly of it all! How can you
be so cruel!"
She looked at him wistfully almost her resolu-
tion failed her. He saw her momentary hesitation
and came close up to her.
"You do not know what love is!" he said, catching
her hand in his own "Innocent, you do not know !
If you did! if I might teach you !"
She drew her hand away very quickly and de-
cidedly.
"Love does not want teaching," she said "it
comes when it will, and where it will! It has not
come to me, and you cannot force it, Robin! If I
were your wife your wife without any wife's love
for you I should grow to hate Briar Farm! yes, I
should! I should pine and die in the very place
where I have been so happy! and I should feel
that he" here she pointed to the sculptured Sieur
Amadis "would almost rise from this tomb and
curse me!"
She spoke with sudden, almost dramatic vehe-
mence, and he gazed at her in mute amazement.
Her eyes flashed, and her face was lit up by a glow of
inspiration and resolve.
"You take me just for the ordinary sort of girl,"
she went on "A girl to caress and fondle and marry
and make the mother of your children, now for
110 INNOCENT
that you might choose among the girls about here,
any of whom would be glad to have you for a hus-
band. But, Robin, do you think I am really fit for
that sort of life always? can't you believe in any-
thing else but marriage for a woman?"
As she thus spoke, she unconsciously created a
new impression on his mind, a veil seemed to be
suddenly lifted, and he saw her as he had never be-
fore seen her a creature removed, isolated and un-
attainable through the force of some inceptive in-
tellectual quality which he had not previously sus-
pected. He answered her, very gently
"Dear, I cannot believe in anything else but love
for a woman," he said "She was created and in-
tended for love, and without love she must surely
be unhappy."
"Love! ah yes!" she responded, quickly "But
marriage is not love!"
His brows contracted.
"You must not speak in that way, Innocent," he
said, seriously "It is wrong people would misun-
derstand you "
Her eyes lightened, and she smiled.
"Yes! I'm sure 'people* would!" she answered
"But 'people' don't matter to me. It is truth that
matters, truth, and love!"
He looked at her, perplexed.
"Why should you think marriage is not love?" he
asked "It is the one thing all lovers wish for to
be married and to live together always "
"Oh, they wish for it, yes, poor things!" she said,
with a little uplifting of her brows "And when
their wishes are gratified, they often wish they had
not wished!" She laughed. "Robin, this talk of
ours is making me feel quite merry ! I am amused ! "
"I am not!" he replied, irritably "You are much
too young a girl to think these thin|
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 111
She nodded, gravely.
"I know! And I ought to get married while
young, before I learn too many of 'these things/ ''
she said "Isn't that so? Don't frown, Robin!
Look at the Sieur Amadis! How peacefully he
sleeps! He knew all about love!"
"Of course he did!" retorted Robin "He was a
perfectly sensible man he married and had six
children."
Innocent nodded again, and a little smile made
two fascinating dimples in her soft cheeks.
"Yes! But he said good-bye to love first!"
He looked at her in visible annoyance.
"How can you tell? what do you know about
it?" he demanded.
She lifted her eyes to the glimpses of blue sky
that showed in deep clear purity between the over-
arching boughs, a shaft of sunlight struck on her
fair hair and illumined its pale brown to gold, so
that for a moment she looked like the picture of a
young rapt saint, lost in heavenly musing.
Then a smile, wonderfully sweet and provocative,
parted her lips, and she beckoned him to a grassy
slope beneath one of the oldest trees, where little
tufts of wild thyme grew thickly, filling the air with
fragrance.
"Come and sit beside me here," she said "We
have the day to ourselves Dad said so, and we
can talk as long as we like. You ask me what I
know? not much indeed! But I'll tell you what
the Sieur Amadis has told me! if you care to hear
it!"
"I'm not sure that I do," he answered, dubiously.
She laughed.
"Oh, Robin! how ungrateful you are! You
ought to be so pleased! If you really loved me as
much as you say, the mere sound of my voice ought
112 INNOCENT
to fill you with ecstasy! Yes, really! Come, be
good!" And she sat down on the grass, glancing
up at him invitingly. He flung himself beside her,
and she extended her little white hand to him with a
pretty condescension.
"There! you may hold it!" she said, as he
eagerly clasped it "Yes, you may! Now, if the
Sieur Amadis had been allowed to hold the hand of
the lady he loved he would have gone mad with 1
joy!"
"Much good he'd have done by going mad!"
growled Robin, with an affectation of ill-humour
"I'd rather be sane, sane and normal."
She bent her smiling eyes upon him.
"Would you? Poor Robin! Well, you will be
when you settle down "
"Settle down?" he echoed "How? What do you
mean?"
"Why, when you settle down with a wife, and
shall we say six children?" she queried, merrily
"Yes, I think it must be six! Like the Sieur Ama-
dis! And when you forget that you ever sat with
me under the trees, holding my hand so!"
The lovely, half-laughing compassion of her look
nearly upset his self-possession. He drew closer to
her side.
"Innocent!" he exclaimed, passionately "if you
would only listen to reason "
She shook her head.
"I never could!" she declared, with an odd little
air of penitent self-depreciation "People who ask
you to listen to reason are always so desperately
dull! Even Priscilla! when she asks you to 'listen
to reason/ she's in the worst of tempers! Besides,
Robin, dear, we shall have plenty of chances to
'listen to reason' when we grow older, we're both
young just now, and a little folly won't hurt us.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 113
Have patience with me! I want to tell you some
quite unreasonable quite abnormal things about
love! May I?"
"Yes if 7 may too!" he answered, kissing the
hand he held, with lingering tenderness.
The soft colour flew over her cheeks, she smiled.
"Poor Robin!" she said "You deserve to be
happy and you will be! not with me, but with
some one much better, and ever so much prettier!
I can see you as the master of Briar Farm such a
sweet home for you and your wife, and all your little
children running about in the fields among the but-
tercups and daisies a pretty sight, Robin ! I shall
think of it often when when I am far away!"
He was about to utter a protest, she stopped
him by a gesture.
"Hush!" she said.
And there was a moment's silence.
CHAPTER VI
"WHEN I think about love," she began presently,
in a soft dreamy voice "I'm quite sure that very
few people ever really feel it or understand it. It
must be the- rarest thing in all the world! This poor
Sieur Amadis, asleep so long in his grave, was a true
lover, and I will tell you how I know he had said
good-bye to love when he married. All those books
we found in the old dower-chest, that day when we
were playing about together as children, belonged
to him some are his own compositions, written by
his own hand, the others, as you know, are printed
books which must have been difficult to get in his
day, and are now, I suppose, quite out of date and
almost unknown. I have read them all!. my head
is a little library full of odd volumes! But there is
one a manuscript book which I never tire of read-
ing, it is a sort of journal in which the Sieur Ama-
dis wrote down many of his own feelings sometimes
in prose, sometimes in verse and by following them
carefully and piecing them together, it is quite easy
to find out his sadness and secret how he loved
once and never loved again "
"You can't tell that," interrupted Robin "men
often say they can only love once but they love
ever so many times "
She smiled and her eyes showed him what a stu-
pid blunder he had made.
"Do they?" she queried, softly "I am so glad,
Robin ! For you will find it easy then to love some-
body else instead of me!"
114
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 115
He flushed, vexedly.
"I didn't mean thak- " he began.
"No? I think you did! but of course if you had
thought twice you wouldn't have said it! It was
uttered quite truly and naturally, Robin! don't
regret it! Only I want to explain to you that the
Sieur Amadis was not like that he loved just once
and the lady he loved must have been a very
beautiful woman who had plenty of admirers and
did not care for him at all. All he writes proves
that. He is always grieved to the heart about it.
Still he loved her and he seems glad to have loved
her, though it was all no use. And he kept a little
chronicle of his dreams and fancies all that he felt
and thought about, it is beautifully and tenderly
written all in quaint old French. I had some trouble
to make it out but I did at last every word and
when he made up his mind to marry, he finished the
little book and never wrote another word in it.
Shall I tell you what were the last lines he wrote?"
"It wouldn't be any use," he answered, kissing
again the hand he held "I don't understand
French. I've never even tried to learn it."
She laughed.
"I know you haven't! But you've missed a great
deal, Robin! you have really! When I made up
my mind to find out all the Sieur Amadis had writ-
ten, I got Priscilla to buy me a French dictionary
and grammar and some other French lesson-books
besides then I spelt all the words carefully and
looked them all up in the dictionary, and learned
the pronunciation from one of the lesson-books
and by-and-bye it got quite easy. For two years at
least it was dreadfully hard work but now well!
I think I could almost speak French if I had the
chance!"
"I'm sure you could!" said Robin, looking at her,
116 INNOCENT
admiringly "You're a clever little girl and could
do anything you wanted to."
Her brows contracted a little, the easy lightness
of his compliment had that air of masculine indiffer-
ence which is more provoking to an intelligent
woman than downright contradiction. The smile
lingered in her eyes, however, a smile of mingled
amusement and compassion.
"Well, I wanted to understand the writing of the
Sieur Amadis," she went on, quietly "and when I
could understand them I translated them. So I can
tell you the last words he wrote in his journal just
before he married, in fact on the very eve of his
marriage-day " She paused abruptly, and
looked for a moment at the worn and battered tomb
of the old knight, green with moss and made pic-
turesque by a trailing branch of wild roses that had
thrown itself across the stone effigy in an attempt to
reach some of its neighbours on the opposite side.
Robin followed her gaze with his own, and for a
moment was more than usually impressed by the
calm, almost stern dignity of the recumbent figure.
"Go on," he said "What were the words?"
"These" and Innocent spoke them in a hushed
voice, with sweet reverence and feeling " 'To-
night I pull down and put away for ever the golden
banner of my life's ideal. It has been held aloft too
long in the sunshine of a dream, and the lily broi-
dered on its web is but a withered flower. My life
is no longer of use to myself, but as a man and faith-
ful knight I will make it serve another's pleasure
and another's good. And because this good and sim-
ple girl doth truly love me, though her love was
none of my seeking, I will give her her heart's de-
sire, though mine own heart's desire shall never be
accomplished, I will make her my wife, and will
be to her a true and loyal husband, so that she may
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 117
receive from me all she craves of happiness and
peace. For though I fain would die rather than
wed, I know that life is not given to a man to live
selfishly, nor is God satisfied to have it wasted by
any one who hath sworn to be His knight and serv-
ant. Therefore even so let it be! I give all my
unvalued existence to her who doth consider it val-
uable, and with all my soul I pray that I may make
so gentle and trustful a creature happy. But to
Love oh, to Love a long farewell! farewell my
dreams! farewell ambition! farewell the glory of
the vision unattainable! farewell bright splendour
of an earthly Paradise! for now I enter that prison
which shall hold me fast till death release me ! Close,
doors! fasten, locks! be patient in thy silent soli-
tude, my Soul!"
Innocent's voice faltered here then she said
"That is the end. He signed it 'Amadis.' '
Robin was very quiet for a minute or two.
"It's pretty very pretty and touching and all
that sort of thing," he said at last -"but it's like
some old sonnet or mediaeval bit of romance. No
one would go on like that nowadays."
Innocent lifted her eyebrows, quizzically.
"Go on like what?"
He moved impatiently.
"Oh, about being patient in solitude with one's
soul, and saying farewell to love." He gave a short
laugh. "Innocent dear, I wish you would see the
world as it really is! not through the old-style
spectacles of the Sieur Amadis! In his day people
were altogether different from what they are now."
"I'm sure they were!" she answered, quietly
"But love is the same to-day as it was then."
He considered a moment, then smiled.
"No, dear, I'm not sure that it is," he said.
"Those knights and poets and curious people of that
118 INNOCENT
kind lived in a sort of imaginary ecstasy they ex-
aggerated their emotions and lived at the top-height
of their fancies. We in our time are much more
sane and level-headed. And it's much better for us
in the long run."
She made no reply. Only very gently she with-
drew her hand from his.
"I'm not a knight of old," he went on, turning
his handsome, sunbrowned face towards her, "but
I'm sure I love you as much as ever the Sieur
Amadis could have loved his unknown lady. So
much indeed do I love you that I couldn't write
about it to save my life! though I did write verses
at Oxford once very bad ones!" He laughed.
"But I can do one thing the Sieur Amadis didn't do
I can keep faithful to my Vision of the glory un-
attainable' and if I don't marry you I'll marry no-
body so there!"
She looked at him curiously and wistfully.
"You will not be so foolish," she said "You will
not put me into the position of the Sieur Amadis,
who married some one who loved him, merely out
of pity!"
He sprang up from the grass beside her.
"No, no! I won't do that, Innocent! I'm not a
coward ! If you can't love me, you shall not marry
me, just because you are sorry for me! That would
be intolerable! I wouldn't have you for a wife at all
under such circumstances. I shall be perfectly
happy as a bachelor perhaps happier than if I
married."
"And what about Briar Farm?" she asked.
"Briar Farm can get on as best it may!" he re-
plied, cheerily "I'll work on it as long as I live
and hand it down to some one worthy of it, never
fear! So there, Innocent! be happy, and don't
worry yourself! Keep to your old knight and your
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 119
strange fancies about him you may be right in
your ideas of love, or you may be wrong; but the
great point with me is that you should be happy
and if you cannot be happy in my way, why you
must just be happy in your own!"
She looked at him with a new interest, as he stood
upright, facing her in all the vigour and beauty of
his young manhood. A little smile crept round the
corners of her mouth.
"You are really a very handsome boy!" she said
"Quite a picture in your way ! Some girl will be
very proud of you!"
He gave a movement of impatience.
"I must go back to the orchard," he said
"There's plenty to do. And after all, work's the
finest thing in the world quite as fine as love per-
haps finer!"
A faint sense of compunction moved her at his
words she was conscious of a lurking admiration
for his cool, strong, healthy attitude towards life
and the things of life. And yet she was resentful
that he should be capable of considering anything
in the world "finer" than love. Work? What
work? Pruning trees and gathering apples? Surely
there were greater ambitions than these? She
watched him thoughtfully under the fringe of her
long eyelashes, as he moved off.
"Going to the orchard?" she asked.
"Yes."
She smiled a little.
"That's right!"
He glanced back at her. Had she known how
bravely he restrained himself she might have made
as much a hero of him as of the knight Ainadis.
For he was wounded to the heart his brightest
hopes were frustrated, and at the very instant he
walked away from her he would have given his life
120 INNOCENT
to have held her for a moment in his arms, to have
kissed her lips, and whispered to her the pretty,
caressing love-nonsense which to warm and tender
hearts is the sweetest language in the world. And
with all his restrained passion he was irritated with
what, from a man's point of view, he considered
folly on her part, he felt that she despised his love
and himself for no other reason than a mere ro-
mantic idea, bred of loneliness and too much 'read-
ing of a literature alien to the customs and manners
of the immediate tune, and an uncomfortable
premonition of fear for her future troubled his
mind.
"Poor little girl!" he thoughtr-"She does not
know the world! and when she does come to know
it ah, my poor Innocent! I would rather she
never knew!"
Meanwhile she, left to herself, was not without a
certain feeling of regret. She was not sure of her
own mind and she had no control over her own
fancies. Every now and then a wave of conviction
came over her that after all tender-hearted old Pris-
cilla might be right that it would be best to marry
Robin and help him to hold and keep Briar Farm
as it had ever been kept and held since the days of
the Sieur Amadis. Perhaps, had she never heard
the story of her actual condition, as told her by
Farmer Jocelyn on the previous night, she might
have consented to what seemed so easy and pleasant
a lot in life; but now it seemed to her more than
impossible. She no longer had any link with the
far-away ancestor who had served her so long as a
sort of ideal she was a mere foundling without any
name save the unbaptised appellation of Innocent.
And she regarded herself as a sort of castaway.
She went into the house soon after Robin had left
her, and busied herself with sorting the linen and
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 121
looking over what had to be mended. "For when I
go," she said to herself, "they must find everything
in order." She dined alone with Priscilla Robin
sent word that he was too busy to come in. She was
a little piqued at this and almost cross when he
sent the same message at tea-time, but she was
proud in her way and would not go out to see if she
could persuade him to leave his work for half-an-
hour. The sun was slowly declining when she sud-
denly put down her sewing, struck by a thought
which had not previously occurred to her and ran
fleetly across the garden to the orchard, where she
found Robin lying on his back under the trees with
closed eyes. He opened them, hearing the light
movement of her feet and the soft flutter of her
gown but he did not rise. She stopped looking
at him.
"Were you asleep?"
He stretched his arms above his head, lazily.
"I believe I was!" he answered, smiling.
"And you wouldn't come in to tea!" This with
a touch of annoyance.
"Oh yes, I would, if I had wanted tea," he replied
"but I didn't want it."
"Nor my company, I suppose," she added, with a
little shrug of her shoulders. His eyes flashed mis-
chievously.
"Oh, I daresay that had something to do with it!"
he agreed.
A curious vexation fretted her. She wished he
would not look so handsome and yes! so indif-
ferent. An impression of loneliness and desertion
came over her he, Robin, was not the same to her
now so she fancied no doubt he had been think-
ing hard all the day while doing his work, and at
last had come to the conclusion that it was wisest
after all to let her go and cease to care for her as he
122 INNOCENT
had done. A little throbbing pulse struggled in her
throat a threat of rising tears, but she conquered
the emotion and spoke in a voice which, though it
trembled, was sweet and gentle.
"Robin," she said "don't you think wouldn't
it be better perhaps "
He looked up at her wonderingly she seemed
nervous or frightened.
"What is it?" he asked "Anything you want me
to do?"
"Yes" and her eyes drooped "but I hardly like
to say it. You see, Dad made up his mind this
morning that we were to settle things together and
hell be angry and disappointed "
Robin half-raised himself on one arm.
"He'll be angry and disappointed if we don't settle
it, you mean," he said "and we certainly haven't
settled it. Well?"
A faint colour flushed her face.
"Couldn't we pretend it's all right for the mo-
ment?" she suggested "Just to give him a little
peace of mind?"
He looked at her steadily.
"You mean, couldn't we deceive him?"
"Yes! for his good! He has deceived me all my
life, I suppose for my good- though it has turned
out badly "
"Has it? Why?"
"It has left me nameless," she answered, "and
friendless."
A sudden rush of tears blinded her eyes -she put
her hands over them. He sprang up and, taking
hold of her slender wrists, tried to draw those hands
down. He succeeded at last, and looked wistfully
into her face, quivering with restrained grief.
"Dear, I will do what you like!" he said. "Tell
me what is your wish?"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 123
She waited a moment, till she had controlled her-
self a little.
"I thought" she said, then "that we might tell
Dad just for to-night that we are engaged it would
make him happy and perhaps in a week or two
we might get up a quarrel together and break it
off "
Robin smiled.
"Dear little girl! I'm afraid the plan wouldn't
work ! He wants the banns put up on Sunday and
this is Wednesday."
Her brows knitted perplexedly.
"Something can be managed before then," she
said. "Robin, I cannot bear to disappoint him!
He's old and he's so ill too! it wouldn't hurt us
for one night to say we are engaged!"
"All right!" and Robin threw back his head and
laughed joyously "I don't mind! The sensation
of even imagining I'm engaged to you is quite agree-
able ! For one evening, at least, I can assume a sort
of proprietorship over you! Innocent! I I "
He looked so mirthful and mischievous that she
smiled, though the teardrops still sparkled on her
lashes.
"Well? What are you thinking of now?" she
asked.
"I think I really think under the circumstances
I ought to kiss you!" he said "Don't you feel it
would be right and proper? Even on the stage the
hero and heroine act a kiss when they're engaged!"
She met his laughing glance with quiet steadfast-
ness.
"I cannot act a kiss," she said "You can, if you
like! I don't mind."
"You don't mind?"
"No."
He looked from right to left the apple-boughs,
124 INNOCENT
loaded with rosy fruit, were intertwined above them
like a canopy the sinking sun made mellow gold
of all the air, and touched the girl's small figure with
a delicate luminance his heart beat, and for a sec-
ond his senses swam in a giddy whirl of longing and
ecstasy then he suddenly pulled himself together.
"Dear Innocent, I wouldn't kiss you for the
world!" he said, gently "It would be taking a
mean advantage of you. I only spoke in fun.
There! dry your pretty eyes! you sweet, strange,
romantic little soul! You shall have it all your own
way!"
She drew a long breath of evident relief.
"Then you'll tell your uncle "
"Anything you like!" he answered. "By-the-bye,
oughtn't he to be home by this time?"
"He may have been kept by some business," she
said "He won't be long now. You'll say we're en-
gaged?"
"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 tender-
ness.
"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 mo-
ment'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
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 125
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 an-
swered, gaily. "Dear Innocent, you must remem-
ber 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 my-
self pretty well but one of the best things I learned
was the general uselessnese and vanity of the fellows
tkat 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 Na-
ture?" 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 pity-
ing themselves now 7 always say, the less of
one's self the better, in order to understand other
people."
Innocent's eyes regarded him with quiet admira-
tion.
"Yes, you are a thoroughly good boy," she said
"I have told you so often. But I'm not sure that
126 INNOCENT
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 ten-
derly, 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 re-
turned. The women of the household grew anx-
ious Priscilla went to the door many times, look-
ing 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.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 127
"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 "Unhar-
ness, 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 man-
ner, 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 inexplica-
ble 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 evi-
dently 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 Lan-
don "
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
128 INNOCENT
"Yes, Dad? You were saying something about
London "
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! Lan-
don 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 sur-
prise.
"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 Lan-
don!"
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?"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 129
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 po-
tatoes! a great deal more!"
CHAPTER VH
THE supper was a very silent meal. Old Hugo
was evidently not inclined to converse, he ate his
food quickly, almost ravenously, 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 Inno-
cent 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 her-
self and Robin. But to her great surprise and re-
lief he said nothing that conveyed the least hint of
the wish he had so long cherished. He was irrita-
ble 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 prac-
tical 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
130
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 131
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 buz-
jzing in my brain like the noise of a cart-wheel I
want rest." As he spoke Innocent came softly be-
side 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 to-morrow 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 ram."
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
132 INNOCENT
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
Vd 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, sug-
gestive 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 indif-
ference 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.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 133
"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, ad-
miringly, 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 ex-
pression.
"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 Inno-
cent one "You just go up to bed and think of noth-
ing 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 every-
thing 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 Tu-
dor 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
134 INNOCENT
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 sud-
denly assumed for her a tragic aspect. Old Joce-
lyn's manner had puzzled her he was unlike him-
self, and she instinctively felt that he had some se-
cret 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 ques-
tions, and he would have expected plain answers,
and they would, in accordance with the secret un-
derstanding they had made with each other, have
deceived him. Now there was no deception neces-
sary 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
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 135
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 shel-
ter 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 cer-
tainly not to Robin."
She put her manuscript by, and shut and locked
136 INNOCENT
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 him-
self 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 re-
called 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 splen-
dour of the moon the tall trees the infinite and
harmonious peace of the whole scene, then, shut-
ting the lattice, she pulled the curtains across it,
and taking her lit candle, went to her secluded in-
ner sleeping-chamber, where, in the small, quaintly
carved four-poster bed, furnished with ancient
tapestry and lavendered linen, and covered up un-
der a quilt embroidered three centuries back by the
useful fingers of the wife of Sieur Amadis de Joce-
lin, she soon fell into a sound and dreamless slum-
ber.
The hours moved on, bearing with them different
destinies to millions of different human lives, and
the tall old clock in the great hall of Briar Farm
told them off with a sonorous chime and clangour
worthy of Westminster itself. It was a quiet night;
there was not a breath of wind to whistle through
crack or key-hole, or swing open an unbolted door,
and Hero, the huge mastiff that always slept "on
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 137
guard" just within the hall entrance, had surely no
cause to sit up suddenly on his great haunches and
listen with uplifted ears to sounds which were to
any other creature inaudible. Yet listen he did
sharply and intently. Raising his massive head he
snuffed the air then suddenly began to tremble as
with cold, and gave vent to a long, low, dismal
moan. It was a weird noise worse than positive
howling, and the dog himself seemed distressfully
conscious that he was expressing something strange
and unnatural. Two or three times he repeated this
eerie muffled cry then, lying down again, he put
his nose between his great paws, and, with a deep
shivering sigh, appeared to resign himself to the in-
evitable. There followed several moments of tense
silence. Then came a sudden dull thud overhead, as
of a heavy load falling or being thrown down, and a
curious inexplicable murmur like smothered choking
or groaning. Instantly the great dog sprang erect
and raced up the staircase like a mad creature, bark-
ing furiously. The house was aroused doors were
flung open Priscilla rushed from her room half
dressed and Innocent ran along the corridor in her
little white nightgown, her feet bare, and her hair
falling dishevelled over her shoulders.
"What is it?" she cried piteously "Oh, do tell
me! What is it?"
Robin Clifford, hearing the dog's persistent bark-
ing, had hastily donned coat and trousers and now
appeared on the scene.
"Hero, Hero!" he called "Quiet, Hero!"
But Hero had bounded to his master Jocelyn's
door and was pounding against it with all the force
of his big muscular body, apparently seeking to
push or break it open. Robin laid one hand on the
animal's collar and pulled him back then tried
the door himself it was locked.
138 INNOCENT
"Uncle Hugo!"
There was no answer.
He turned to one of the frightened servants who
were standing near. His face was very pale.
"Fetch me a hammer," he said "Something
anything that will force the lock. Innocent!"
and with deep tenderness he took her little cold
hands in his own "I wish you would go away!"
"Why?" and she looked at him with eyes full of
terror. "Oh no, no! Let me be with you let me
call him!" and she knelt outside the closed door
"Dad ! Dear Dad ! I want to speak to you ! Mayn't
I come in? I'm so frightened do let me come in,
Dad!"
But the silence remained unbroken.
"Priscilla!" and Robin beckoned to her "keep
Innocent beside you I'm afraid "
Priscilla nodded, turning her head aside a mo-
ment to wipe away the tears that were gathering in
her eyes, then she put an arm round Innocent's
waist.
"Don't kneel there, lovey," she whispered "It's
no good and you're in the way when they open the
door. Come with me! there's a dear!" and she
drew the trembling little figure tenderly into her
arms. "There! that'll be a bit warmer!" and she
signed to one of the farm maids near her to fetch a
cloak which she carefully wrapped round the girl's
shoulders. Just then the hammer was brought with
other tools, and Robin, to save any needless clamour,
took a chisel and inserted it in such a manner as
should most easily force the catch of the door but
the lock was an ancient and a strong one, and would
not yield for some time. At last, with an extra
powerful and dexterous movement of his hand, it
suddenly gave way and he saw what he would
have given worlds that Innocent should not have
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 139
seen old Hugo lying face forward on the floor, mo-
tionless. There was a rush and a wild cry
"Dad! Dad!"
She was beside him in a moment, trying with all
her slight strength to lift his head and turn his
face.
"Help me oh, help me!" she wailed. "He has
faulted we must lift him get some one to lift him
on the bed. It is only a faint he will recover get
some brandy and send for the doctor. Don't lose
time! for Heaven's sake be quick! Robin, make
them hurry!"
Robin had already whispered his orders, and
two of the farm lads, roused from sleep and hastily
summoned, were ready to do what he told them.
With awed, hushed movements they lifted the heavy
fallen body of their master between them and laid
it gently down on the bed. As the helpless head
dropped back on the pillow they saw that all was
over, the pinched ashen grey of the features and
the fast glazing eyes told their own fatal story
there was no hope. But Innocent held the cold
hand of the dead man to her warm young bosom,
endeavouring to take from it its cureless chill.
"He will be better soon," she said, "Priscilla,
bring me that brandy just a little will revive him,
I'm sure. Why do you stand there crying? You
surely don't think he's dead? No, no, that isn't
possible! It isn't possible, is it, Robin? He'll come
to himself in a few minutes a fainting fit may last
quite a long time. I wish he had not locked his door
we could have been with him sooner."
So she spoke, tremblingly nursing the dead hand
in her bosom. No one present had the heart to
contradict her and Priscilla, with the tears run-
ning down her face, brought the brandy she asked
for and held it while she tenderly moistened the
140 INNOCENT
lips of the corpse and tried to force a few drops be-
tween the clenched teeth in vain. This futile at-
tempt frightened her, and she looked at Robin Clif-
ford with a wild air.
"I cannot make him swallow it," she said "Can
you, Robin? He looks so grey and cold! but his
lips are quite warm."
Robin, restraining the emotion that half choked
hun and threatened to overflow in womanish weep-
ing, went up to her and tried to coax her away from
the bedside.
"Dear, if you could leave him for a little it would
perhaps be better," he said. "He might he might
recover sooner. We have sent for the doctor he
will be here directly "
"I will stay here till he comes," replied the girl,
quietly. "How can you think I would leave
Dad when he's ill? If we could only rouse him a
little "
Ah, that "if"! If we could only rouse our be-
loved ones who fall into that eternal sleep, would
not all the riches and glories of the world seem tame
in comparison with such joy! Innocent had never
seen death she could not realise that this calm ir-
responsiveness, this cold and stiffening rigidity,
meant an end to the love and care she had known
all her life love and care which would never be
replaced in quite the same way!
The first peep of a silver dawn began to peer
through the lattice window, and as she saw this sug-
gestion of wakening life, a sudden dread clutched at
her heart and made it cold.
"It will be morning soon," she said "Priscilla,
when will the doctor come?"
Scarcely had she said the words when the doctor
entered. He took a comprehensive glance round the
room, at the still form on the bed at the little
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 141
crouching girl-figure beside it at Priscilla, trem-
bling and tearful at Robin, deadly pale and self-
restrained at the farm-lads and servants.
"When did this happen?" he said.
Robin told him.
"I see!" he said. "He must have fallen forward
on getting out of bed. I rather expected a sudden
seizure of this kind."
He made his brief examination. The eyes of the
dead man were open and glassily staring upward
he gently closed the lids over them and pressed them
down.
"Nothing to be done," he went on, gently "His
end was painless."
Innocent had risen she had laid the cold hand
of the corpse back on its breast and she stood
gazing vacantly before her in utter misery.
"Nothing to be done?" she faltered "Do you
mean that you cannot rouse him? Will he never
speak to me again?"
The doctor looked at her gravely and kindly.
"Not in this world, my dear," he said "in the
next perhaps! Let us hope so!"
She put her hand up to her forehead with a be-
wildered gesture.
"He is dead!" she cried "Dead! Oh, Robin,
Robin! I can't believe it! it isn't true! Dad,
dear Dad! My only friend! Good-bye good-bye,
Dad! good-bye, Briar Farm good-bye to every-
thingoh, Dad!"
Her voice quavered and broke in a passion of
tears.
"I loved him as if he were my own father," she
sobbed. "And he loved me as if I were his own
child! Oh, Dad, darling Dad! We can never love
each other again!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE news of Farmer Jocelyn's sudden death was
as though a cloud-burst had broken over the village,
dealing utter and hopeless destruction. To the little
community of simple workaday folk living round
Briar Farm it wa"s a greater catastrophe than the
death of any king. Nothing else was talked of.
Nothing was done. Men stood idly about, looking at
each other in a kind of stupefied consternation,
women chattered and whispered at their cottage
doors, shaking their heads with all that melancholy
profundity of wisdom which is not wise till after the
event, the children were less noisy in their play,
checked by the grave faces of their parents the
very dogs seemed to know that something had oc-
curred which altered the aspect of ordinary daily
things. The last of the famous Jocelyns was no
more! It seemed incredible. And Briar Farm?
What would become of Briar Farm?
"There ain't none o' th' owd folk left now," said
one man, lighting his pipe slowly "It's all over an'
done wi'. Mister Clifford, he's good enow but
he ain't a Jocelyn, though a Jocelyn were his
mother. 'Tis the male side as tells. An' he's young,
an' he'll want change an' rovin' about like all young
men nowadays, an' the place'll be broke up, an' the
timber felled, an' th' owd oak'll be sold to a dealer,
an' Merrikans'll come an' buy the pewter an' the
glass an' the linen, an' by-an'-bye we won't know
there ever was such a farm at all "
"That's your style o' thinkin', is it?" put in an-
142
other man standing by, with a round straw hat set
back upon his head in a fashion which gave him the
appearance of a village idiot "Well, it's not mine!
No, by no means! There'll be a Will, an' Mister
Robin he'll find a Way! Briar Farm'll allus be
Briar Farm accordin' to my mind!"
"Your mind ain't much," growled the first
speaker "so don't ye go settin' store by it. Lord,
Lord! to think o' Farmer Jocelyn bein' gone!
Seems as if a right 'and 'ad bin cut off ! Onny yes-
terday I met 'im drivin' along the road at a tearin'
pace, with Ned Landon sittin' beside 'im an'
drivin' fine too, for the mare's a tricky one with a
mouth as 'ard as iron but 'e held 'er firm that 'e
did! no weakness about 'im an' 'e was talkin'
away to Landon while 'e drove, 'ardly lookin' right
or left, 'e was that sure of hisself. An' now 'e's cold
as stone who would a' thort it!"
"Where's Landon?" asked the other man.
"I dunno. He's nowhere about this mornin' that
I've seen."
At that moment a figure came into view, turning
the corner of a lane at the end of the scattered
thatched cottages called "the village," a portly,
consequential-looking figure, which both men recog-
nised as that of the parson of the parish, and they
touched their caps accordingly. The Reverend
William Medwin, M.A., was a great personage,
and his "cure of souls" extended to three other vil-
lages outlying the one of which Briar Farm was
the acknowledged centre.
"Good-morning!" he said, with affable conde-
scension "I hear that Farmer Jocelyn died sud-
denly last night. Is it true?"
Both men nodded gravely.
"Yes, sir, it's true more's the pity! It's took us
all aback."
144 INNOCENT
"Ay, ay!" and Mr. Medwin nodded blandly "No
doubt no doubt! But I suppose the farm will go
on just the same? there will be no lack of employ-
ment?"
The man who was smoking looked doubtful.
"Nobuddy can tell m'appen the place will be
sold m'appen it won't. The hands may be kept,
or they may be given the sack. There's only Mr.
Clifford left now, an' 'e ain't a Jocelyn."
"Does that matter?" and the reverend gentleman
smiled with the superior air of one far above all
things of mere traditional sentiment. "There is the
girl "
"Ah, yes ! There's the girl ! "
The speakers looked at one another.
"Her position," continued Mr. Medwin, medita-
tively tracing a pattern on the ground with the end
of his walking-stick, "seems to me to be a little un-
fortunate. But I presume she is really the daughter
of our deceased friend?"
The man who was smoking took the pipe from
his mouth and stared for a moment.
"Daughter she may be," he said, "but born out o'
wedlock anyhow an' she ain't got no right to Briar
Farm unless th' owd man 'as made 'er legal. An'
if 'e's done that it don't alter the muddle, 'cept in
the eyes o' the law which can twist ye any way for
she was born bastard, an' there's never been a bas-
tard Jocelyn on Briar Farm all the hundreds o' years
it's been standin'!"
Mr. Medwin again interested himself in a dust
pattern.
"Ah, dear, dear!" he sighed "Very sad, very sad!
Our follies always find us out, if not while we live,
then when we die ! I'm sorry ! Farmer Jocelyn was
not a Churchman no! a regrettable circum-
stance! still, I'm sorry! He was a useful person in
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 145
the parish quite honest, I believe, and a very fair
and good master "
"None better!" chorussed his listeners.
"True! None better. Well, well! I'll just go
up to the house and see if I can be of any service, or
or comfort "
One of the men smiled darkly.
"Sartin sure Farmer Jocelyn's as dead as door-
nails. If so be you are a-goin' to Briar Farm, Mr.
Medwin!" he said "Why, you never set foot in the
place while 'e was a livin' man!"
"Quite correct!" and Mr. Medwin nodded pleas-
antly "I make it a rule never to go where I'm not
wanted." He paused, impressively, conscious that
he had "scored." "But now that trouble has visited
the house I consider it my duty to approach the
fatherless and the afflicted. Good-day!"
He walked off then, treading ponderously and
wearing a composed and serious demeanour. The
men who had spoken with him were quickly joined
by two or three others.
"Parson goin' to the Farm?" they enquired.
"Ay!"
"We'll 'ave gooseberries growin' on hayricks
next!" declared a young, rough-featured fellow in a
smock "anythin' can 'appen now we've lost the
last o' the Jocelyns!"
And such was the general impression throughout
the district. Men met in the small public-houses
and over their mugs of beer discussed the possibili-
ties of emigrating to Canada or New Zealand, for
"there'll be no more farm work worth doin' round
'ere" they all declared "Mister Jocelyn wanted
men, an' paid 'em well for workin' like men! but
it'll all be machines now."
Meanwhile, the Reverend Mr. Medwin, M.A.,
had arrived at Briar Farm. Everything was curi-
146 INNOCENT
ously silent. All the blinds were down the stable-
doors were closed, and the stable-yard was empty.
The sunlight swept in broad slanting rays over the
brilliant flower-beds which were now at their gayest
and best, the doves lay sleeping on the roofs of
sheds and barns as though mesmerised and forbid-
den to fly. A marked loneliness clouded the peace-
ful beauty of the place a loneliness that made it-
self seen and felt by even the most casual visitor.
With a somewhat hesitating hand Mr. Medwin
pulled the door-bell. In a minute or two a maid
answered the summons her eyes were red with
weeping. At sight of the clergyman she looked sur-
prised and a little frightened.
"How is Miss Miss Jocelyn?" he enquired,
softly "I have only just heard the sad news "
"She's not able to see anyone, sir," replied the
maid, tremulously "at least I don't think so I'll
ask. She's very upset "
"Of course, of course!" said Mr. Medwin, sooth-
ingly "I quite understand! Please say I called!
Mr. Clifford "
A figure stepped out from the interior darkness
of the shadowed hall towards him.
"I am here," said Robin, gently "Did you wish
to speak to me? This is a house of heavy mourn-
ing to-day!"
The young man's voice shook, he was deadly
pale, and there was a strained look in his eyes of
unshed tears. Mr. Medwin was conscious of nerv-
ous embarrassment.
"Indeed, indeed I know it is!" he murmured *"I
feel for you most profoundly! So sudden a shock
too! I I thought that perhaps Miss Jocelyn a
young girl struck by her first great loss and sorrow,
might like to see me "
Robin Clifford looked at him in silence for a mo-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 147
ment. The consolations of the Church! Would
they mean anything to Innocent? He wondered.
"I will ask her," he said at last, abruptly "Will
you step inside?"
Mr. Medwin accepted the suggestion, taking off
his hat as he crossed the threshold, and soon found
himself in the quaint sitting-room where, but two
days since, Hugo Jocelyn had told Innocent all her
true history. He could not help being impressed by
its old-world peace and beauty, furnished as it was
in perfect taste, with its window-outlook on a para-
dise of happy flowers rejoicing in the sunlight. The
fragrance of sweet lavender scented the air, and a
big china bowl of roses in the centre of the table
gave a touch of tender brightness to the old oak
panelling on the walls.
"There are things in this room that are priceless!"
soliloquised the clergyman, who was something of a
collector "If the place comes under the hammer I
shall try to pick up a few pieces."
He smiled, with the pleased air of one who feels
that all things must have an end either by the
"hammer" or otherwise, even a fine old house, the
pride and joy of a long line of its owners during
three hundred years. And then he started, as the
door opened slowly and softly and a girl stood be-
fore him, looking more like a spirit than a mortal,
clad in a plain white gown, with a black ribbon
threaded through her waving fair hair. She was
pale to the very lips, and her eyes were swollen and
heavy with weeping. Timidly she held out her
hand.
"It is kind of you to come," she said, and
paused.
He, having taken her hand and let it go again,
stood awkwardly mute. It was the first time he had
seen Innocent in her home surroundings, and he had
148 INNOCENT
hardly noticed her at all when he had by chance met
her in her rare walks through the village and neigh-
bourhood, so that he was altogether unprepared for
the refined delicacy and grace of her appearance.
"I am very sorry to hear of your sad bereave-
ment," he began, at last, in a conventional tone
"very sorry indeed "
She looked at him curiously.
"Are you? I don't think you can be sorry, be-
cause you did not know him if you had known
him, you would have been really grieved yes, I
am sure you would. He was such a good man!
one of the best in all the world ! I'm glad you have
come to see me, because I have often wanted to
speak to you and perhaps now is the right time.
Won't you sit down?"
He obeyed her gesture, surprised more or less by
her quiet air of sad self-possession. He had ex-
pected to offer the usual forms of religious consola-
tion to a sort of uneducated child or farm-girl,
nervous, trembling and tearful, instead of this he
found a woman whose grief was too deep and sin-
cere to be relieved by mere talk, and whose pathetic
composure and patience were the evident result of
a highly sensitive mental organisation.
"I have never seen death before," she said, in
hushed tones "except in birds and flowers and ani-
mals and I have cried over the poor things for
sorrow that they should be taken away out of this
beautiful world. But with Dad it is different. He
was afraid afraid of suffering and weakness and
he was taken so quickly that he could hardly have
felt anything so that his fears were all useless.
And I can hardly believe he is dead actually dead
can you? But of course you do not believe in
death at all the religion you teach is one of eternal
life eternal life and happiness."
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 149
Mr. Medwin's lips moved he murmured some-
thing about "living again in the Lord."
Innocent did not hear, she was absorbed in her
own mental problem and anxious to put it before
him.
"Listen!" she said "When Priscilla told me Dad
was really dead that he would never get off the bed
where he lay so cold and white and peaceful, that
he would never speak to me again, I said she was
wrong that it could not be. I told her he would
wake presently and laugh at us all for being so
foolish as to think him dead. Even Hero, our mas-
tiff, does not believe it, for he has stayed all morn-
ing by the bedside and no one dare touch him to
take him away. And just now Priscilla has been
with me, crying very much and she says I must
not grieve, because Dad is gone to a better world.
Then surely he must be alive if he is able to go any-
where, must he not? I asked her what she knew
about this better world, and she cried again and
said indeed she knew nothing except what she had
been taught in her Catechism. I have read the
Catechism and it seems to me very stupid and un-
natural perhaps because I do not understand it.
Can you tell me about this better world?"
Mr. Medwin's lips moved again. He cleared his
throat.
"I'm afraid," he observed "I'm very much
afraid, my poor child, that you have been brought
up in a sad state of ignorance "
Innocent did not like being called a "poor child"
and she gave a little gesture of annoyance.
"Please do not pity me," she said, with a touch
of hauteur "I do not wish that ! I know it is diffi-
cult for me to explain things to you as I see them,
because I have never been taught religion from a
Church. I have read about the Virgin and Christ
150 INNOCENT
and the Saints and all those pretty legends in the
books that belonged to the Sieur Amadis but he
lived three hundred years ago and he was a Roman
Catholic, as all those French noblemen were at that
time."
Mr. Medwin stared at her in blank bewilderment.
Who was the Sieur Amadis? She went on, heedless
of his perplexity.
"Dad believed in a God who governed all
things rightly, I have heard him say that God
managed the farm and made it what it is. But
he never spoke much about it and he hated the
Church "
The reverend gentleman interrupted her with a
grave uplifted hand.
"I know ! " he sighed "Ah yes, I know ! A dread-
ful thing! a shocking attitude of mind! I fear he
was not saved!"
She looked straightly at him.
"I don't see what you mean," she said "He was
quite a good man "
"Are you sure of that?" and Mr. Medwin fixed
his shallow brown eyes searchingly upon her. "Our
affections are often very deceptive "
A flush of colour overspread her pale cheeks.
"Indeed I am very sure!" she answered, steadily
"He was a good man. There was never a stain
on his character though he allowed people to think
wrong things of him for my sake. That was his only
fault."
He was silent, waiting for her next word.
"I think perhaps I ought to tell you," she con-
tinued "because then you will be able to judge
him better and spare his memory from foolish and
wicked scandal. He was not my father I was only
his adopted daughter."
Mr. Medwin gave a slight cough a cough of in-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 151
credulity. "Adopted" is a phrase often used to
cover the brand of illegitimacy.
"I never knew my own history till the other day,"
she said, slowly and sadly. "The doctor came to
see Dad, with a London specialist, a friend of his
and they told him he had not long to live. After
that Dad made up his mind that I must learn all
the truth of myself oh! what a terrible truth it
was! I thought my heart would break! It was so
strange so cruel! I had grown up believing myself
to be Dad's own, very own daughter! and I had
been deceived all my life! for he told me I was
nothing but a nameless child, left on his hands by
a stranger!"
Mr. Medwin opened his small eyes in amazement,
he was completely taken aback. He tried to
grasp the bearings of this new aspect of the situa-
tion thus presented to him, but could not realise
anything save what in his own mind was he pleased
to call a "cock-and-bull" story.
"Most extraordinary!" he ejaculated, at last
"Did he give you no clue at all as to your actual
parentage?"
Innocent shook her head.
"How could he? A man on horseback arrived
here suddenly one very stormy night, carrying me
in his arms I was just a little baby and asked
shelter for me, promising to come and fetch me in
the morning but he never came and Dad never
knew who he was. I was kept here out of pity at
first then Dad began to love me "
The suppressed tears rose to her eyes and began
to fall.
"Priscilla can tell you all about it," she continued,
tremulously "if you wish to know more. I am
only explaining things a little because I do want you
to understand that Dad was really a good man
152 INNOCENT
though he djd not go to Church and he must have
been 'saved/ as you put it, for he never did any-
thing unworthy of the name of Jocelyn!"
The clergyman thought a moment.
"You are not Miss Jocelyn, then?" he said.
She met his gaze with a sorrowful calmness.
"No. I am nobody. I have not even been bap-
tised."
He sprang up from his chair, horrified.
"Not baptised!" he exclaimed "Not baptised!
Do you mean to tell me that Farmer Jocelyn never
attended to this imperative and sacred duty on your
behalf? that he allowed you to grow up as a
heathen?"
She remained unmoved by his outburst.
"I am not a heathen," she said, gently "I be-
lieve in God as Dad believed. I'm sorry I have
not been baptised but it has made no difference to
me that I know of "
"No difference!" and the clergyman rolled up his
eyes and shook his head ponderously "You poor
unfortunate girl, it has made all the difference in
the world! You are unregenerate your soul is not
washed clean all your sins are upon you, and you
are not redeemed!"
She looked at him tranquilly.
"That is all very sad for me if it is true," she said
"but it is not my fault. I could not help it. Dad
couldn't help it either he did not know what to
do. He expected that I might be claimed and taken
away any day and he had no idea what name to
give me except Innocent which is a name I sup-
pose no girl ever had before. He used to get money
from time to time in registered envelopes, bearing
different foreign postmarks and there was always a
slip of paper inside with the words 'For Innocent*
written on it. So that name has been my only name.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 153
You see, it was very difficult for him poor Dad!
besides, he did not believe in baptism "
"Then he was an infidel!" declared Mr. Medwin,
hotly.
Her serious blue eyes regarded him reproachfully.
"I don't think you should say that it isn't quite
kind on your part," she replied "He always
thanked God for prosperity, and never complained
when things went wrong that is not being an in-
fidel! Even when he knew he was hopelessly ill,
he never worried anyone about it he was only just
a little afraid and that was perfectly natural.
We're all a little afraid, you know though we pre-
tend we're not none of us like the idea of leaving
this lovely world and the sunshine for ever. Even
Hamlet was afraid, Shakespeare makes him say
so. And when one has lived all one's life on Briar
Farm such a sweet peaceful home! one can
hardly fancy anything better, even in a next world !
No Dad was not an infidel please do not think
such a thing! he only died last night and I feel
as if it would hurt him."
Mr. Medwin was exceedingly embarrassed and
annoyed there was something hi the girl's quiet
demeanour that suggested a certain intellectual
superiority to himself. He hummed and hawed,
making various unpleasant throaty noises.
"Well to me, of course, it is a very shocking
state of affairs," he said, irritably "I hardly think
I can be of any use or consolation to you in the
matters you have spoken of, which are quite out-
side my scope altogether. If you have anything to
say about the funeral arrangements but I presume
Mr. Clifford "
"Mr. Clifford is master here now," she answered
"He will give his own orders, and will do all that is
best and wisest. As I have told you, I am a name-
154 INNOCENT
less nobody, and have no right in this house at all.
I'm sorry if I have vexed or troubled you but as
you called I thought it was right to tell you how I
am situated. You see, when poor Dad is buried I
shall be going away at once and I had an idea you
might perhaps help me you are God's minister."
He wrinkled up his brows and looked frowningly
at her.
"You are leaving Briar Farm?" he asked.
"I must. I have no right to stay."
"Is Mr. Clifford turning you out?"
A faint, sad smile crept round the girl's pretty,
sensitive mouth.
"Ah, no! No, indeed! He would not turn a dog
out that had once taken food from his hand," she
said. "It is my own wish entirely. When Dad was
alive there was something for me to do in taking
care of him but now ! there is no need for me I
should feel in the way besides, I must try to earn
my own living."
"What do you propose to do?" asked Mr. Med-
win, whose manner to her had completely changed
from the politely patronising to the sharply aggres-
sive "Do you want a situation?"
She lifted her eyes to his fat, unpromising face.
"Yes I should like one very much I could be a
lady's maid, I think. I can sew very well. But
perhaps you would baptise me first?"
He gave a sound between a cough and a grunt.
"Eh? Baptise you?"
"Yes, because if I am unregenerate, and my
soul is not clean, as you say, no one would take me
not even as a lady's maid."
Her quaint, perfectly simple way of putting the
case made him angry.
"I'm afraid you are not sufficiently aware of the
importance of the sacred rite," he said, severely
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 155
"At your age you would need to be instructed for
some weeks before you could be considered fit and
worthy. Then, you tell me you have no name!
Innocent is not a name at all for a woman I do not
know who you are you are ignorant of your
parentage you may have been born out of wed-
lock "
She coloured deeply.
"I am not sure of that," she said, in a low tone.
"No of course you are not sure, but I should
say the probability is that you are illegitimate"
and the reverend gentleman took up his hat to go.
"The whole business is very perplexing and diffi-
cult. However, I will see what can be done for you
but you are in a very awkward corner! very
awkward indeed! Life will not be very easy for
you, I fear!"
"I do not expect ease," she replied "I have been
very happy till now and I am grateful for the past.
I must make my own future."
Her eyes filled with tears as she looked out
through the open window at the fair garden which
she herself had tended for so long and she saw the
clergyman's portly form through a mist of sorrow
as in half-hearted fashion he bade her good-day.
"I hope I fervently trust that God will sup-
port you in your bereavement," he said, unctuously
"I had intended before leaving to offer up a
prayer with you for the soul of the departed and for
your own soul but the sad fact of your being un-
baptised places me in a difficulty. But I shall not
fail personally to ask our Lord to prepare you for
the unfortunate change in your lot!"
"Thank you!" she replied, quietly and without
further salute he left her.
She stood for a moment considering then sat
down by the window, looking at the radiant flower-
156 INNOCENT
beds, with all their profusion of blossom. She won-
dered dreamily how they could show such brave,
gay colouring when death was in the house, and the
aching sense of loss and sorrow weighted the air
as with darkness. A glitter of white wings flashed
before her eyes, and her dove alighted on the win-
dow-sill, she stretched out her hand and the petted
bird stepped on her little rosy palm with all its ac-
customed familiarity and confidence. She caressed
it tenderly.
"Poor Cupid!" she murmured "You are like me
you are unregenerate ! you have never been bap-
tised! your soul has not been washed clean! and
all your sins are on your head! Yes, Cupid! we
are very much alike! for I don't suppose you know
your own father and mother any more than I know
mine! And yet God made you and He has taken
care of you so far!"
She stroked the dove's satiny plumage gently
and then drew back a little into shadow as she saw
Robin Clifford step out from the porch into the
garden and hurriedly interrupt the advance of a
woman who just then pushed open the outer gate
a slatternly-looking creature with dark dishevelled
hair and a face which might have been handsome,
but for its unmistakable impress of drink and dissi-
pation.
"Eh, Mr. Clifford it's you, is it?" she exclaimed,
in shrill tones. "An' Farmer Jocelyn's dead!
who'd a' thought it! But I'd 'ave 'ad a bone to
pick with 'im this mornin', if he'd been livin' that
I would! givin' sack to Ned Landon without a
warning to me!"
Innocent leaned forward, listening eagerly, with
an uncomfortably beating heart. Through all the
miserable, slow, and aching hours that had elapsed
since Hugo Jocelyn's death, there had been a secret
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 157
anxiety in her mind concerning Ned Landon and
the various possibilities involved in his return to
the farm, when he should learn that his employer
was no more, and that Robin was sole master.
"I've come up to speak with ye," continued the
woman, "It's pretty 'ard on me to be left in the
ditch, with a man tumbling ye off his horse an' ridin'
away where ye can't get at 'im!" She laughed
harshly. "Ned's gone to 'Merriker!"
"Gone to America!" Robin's voice rang out in
sharp accents of surprise "Ned Landon? Why,
when did you hear that?"
"Just now his own letter came with the carrier's
cart he left the town last night and takes ship
from Southampton to-day. And why? Because
Farmer Jocelyn gave him five hundred pounds to
do it! So there's some real news for ye!"
"Five hundred pounds!" echoed Clifford "My
Uncle Hugo gave him five hundred pounds!"
"Ay, ye may stare!" and the woman laughed
again "And the devil has taken it all, except a
five-pun' note which he sends to me to 'keep me
goin',' he says. Like his cheek! I'm not his wife,
that's true! but I'm as much as any wife an'
tkere's the kid "
Robin glanced round apprehensively at the open
window.
"Hush!" he said "don't talk so loud "
"The dead can't hear," she said, scornfully "an*
Ned says in his letter that he's been sent off all on
account of you an' your light o' love Innocent,
she's called a precious 'innocent' she is! an' that
the old man has paid 'im to go away an' 'old his
tongue! So it's all your fault, after all, that I'm
left with the kid to rub along anyhow; he might
'ave married me in a while, if he'd stayed. I'm only
Jenny o' Mill-Dykes now just as I've always been
158 INNOCENT
the toss an' catch of every man! but I 'ad a grip
on Ned with the kid, an' he'd a' done me right in the
end if you an' your precious 'innocent' 'adn't been
in the way "
Robin made a quick stride towards her.
"Go out of this place!" he said, fiercely "How
dare you come here with such lies!"
He stopped, half choked with rage.
Jenny looked at him and laughed then snapped
her fingers in his face.
"Lies, is it?" she said "Well, lies make good
crops, an' Farmer Jocelyn's money'll 'elp them to
grow! Lies, indeed! An' how dare I come here?
Why, because your old uncle is stiff an' cold an'
can't speak no more an' no one would know what
'ad become o' Ned Landon if I wasn't here to tell
them an' show his own letter! I'll tell them all,
right enough ! you bet your life I will!"
She turned her back on him and began to walk,
or rather slouch, out of the garden. He went up
close to her, his face white with passion.
"If you say one word about Miss Jocelyn "
he began.
"Miss Jocelyn!" she exclaimed, shrilly "That's
good! we are grand!" and she dropped him a
mock curtsey "Miss Jocelyn! There ain't no
'Miss Jocelyn,' an' you know it as well as I do ! So
don't try to fool me! Look here, Mr. Robin Clif-
ford" and she confronted him, with arms akimbo
"you're not a Jocelyn neither! there's not a Joce-
lyn left o' the old stock they're all finished with
the one lyin' dead upstairs yonder and I'll tell ye
what! you an' your 'innocent' are too 'igh an*
mighty altogether for the likes o' we poor villagers
seein' ye ain't got nothin' to boast of, neither of
ye! You've lost me my man an' I'll let everyone
know how an' why!"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 159
With that she went, banging the gate after her
and Clifford stood inert, furious within himself, yet
powerless to do anything save silently endure the
taunts she had flung at him. He could have cursed
himself for the folly he had been guilty of in telling
his uncle about the fight between him and Landon
for he saw now that the old man had secretly
worried over the possible harm that might be done to
Innocent through Landon's knowledge of her real
story, which he had learned through his spying and
listening. Whatever that harm could be, was now
intensified and scandal, beginning as a mere whis-
pered suggestion, would increase to loud and positive
assertion ere long. ,
"Poor Uncle Hugo!" and the young man looked
up sorrowfully at the darkened windows of the room
where lay in still and stern repose all that was mor-
tal of the last of the Jocelyns "What a mistake you
have made! You meant so well! you thought you
were doing a wise thing in sending Landon away
and at such a cost! but you did not know what he
had left behind him Jenny of the Mill-Dykes,
whose wicked tongue would blacken an angel's repu-
tation!"
A hand touched him lightly on the arm from be-
hind. He turned swiftly round and confronted In-
nocent she stood like a little figure of white porce-
lain, holding her dove against her breast.
"Poor Robin!" she said, softly "Don't worry!
I heard everything."
He stared down upon her.
"You heard ?"
"Yes. I was at the open window there I
couldn't help hearing. It was Jenny of the Mill-
Dykes I know her by sight, but not to speak to
Priscilla told me something about her. She isn't a
nice woman, is she?"
160 INNOCENT
"Nice?" Robin gasped "No, indeed! She is
Well! I must not tell you what she is!"
"No ! you must not I don't want to hear. But
she ought to be Ned Landon's wife I understood
that! and she has a little child. I understood that
too. And she knows everything about me and
about that night when you climbed up on my win-
dow-sill and sat there so long. It was a pity you did
that, wasn't it?"
"Yes! when there was a dirty spy in hiding!"
said Robin, hotly.
"Ah! we never imagined such a thing could be
on Briar Farm!" and she sighed "but it can't be
helped now. Poor darling Dad! He parted with all
that money to get rid of the man he thought would
do me wrong. Oh Robin, he loved me!"
The tears gathered in her eyes and fell slowly like
bright raindrops on the downy feathers of the dove
she held.
"He loved you, and I love you!" murmured
Robin, tenderly. "Dear little girl, come indoors
and don't cry any more! Your sweet eyes will be
spoilt, and Uncle Hugo could never bear to see you
weeping. All the tears in the world won't bring
him back to us here, but we can do our best to
please him still, so that if his spirit has ever been
troubled, it can be at peace. Come in and let us
talk quietly together we must look at things
squarely and straightly, and we must try to do all
the things he would have wished "
"All except one thing," she said, as they went to-
gether side by side into the house "the one thing
that can never be!"
"The one thing the chief thing that shall be!"
answered Robin, fiercely "Innocent, you must be
my wife!"
She lifted her tear-wet eyes to his with a grave
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 161
and piteous appeal which smote him to the heart by
its intense helplessness and sorrow.
"Robin, dear Robin!" she said "Don't make it
harder for me than it is! Think for a moment! I
am nameless a poor, unbaptised, deserted creature
who was flung on your uncle's charity eighteen years
ago I am a stranger and intruder in this old historic
place I have no right to be here at all only
through your uncle's kindness and yours. And now
things have happened so cruelly for me that I am
supposed to be to you what I am not," and the
deep colour flushed her cheeks and brow. "I have
somehow through no fault of my own lost my
name! though I had no name to lose except In-
nocent! which, as the clergyman told me, is no
name for a woman. Do you not see that if I married
you, people would say it was because you were com-
pelled to marry me? that you had gone too far
to escape from me? that, in fact, we were a sort of
copy of Ned Landon and Jenny of the Mill-Dykes?"
"Innocent!"
He uttered the name in a tone of indignant and
despairing protest. They were hi the oak parlour
together, and she went slowly to the window and let
her pet dove fly.
"Ah, yes! Innocent!" she repeated, sadly
"But you must let me go, Robin! just as I have let
my dove fly, so you must let me fly also far,
far away!"
CHAPTER IX
No more impressive scene was ever witnessed in a
country village than the funeral of "the last of the
Jocelyns," impressive in its solemnity, simplicity
and lack of needless ceremonial. The coffin, contain-
ing all that was mortal of the sturdy, straightforward
farmer, whose "old-world" ways of work and up-
right dealing with his men had for so long been the
wonder and envy of the district, was placed in a low
waggon and covered with a curiously wrought, hand-
woven purple cloth embroidered with the arms of
the French knight "Amadis de Jocelin," tradition
asserting that this cloth had served as a pall for every
male Jocelyn since his time. The waggon was drawn
by four glossy dark brown cart-horses, each animal
having known its master as a friend whose call it
was accustomed to obey, following him wherever he
went. On the coffin itself was laid a simple wreath
of the "Glory" roses gathered from the porch and
walls of Briar Farm, and offered, as pencilled faintly
on a little scroll "With a life's love and sorrow from
Innocent." A long train of mourners, including la-
bourers, farm-lads, shepherds, cowherds, stable-men
and villagers generally, followed the corpse to the
grave, Robin Clifford, as chief mourner and next-
of-kin to the dead man, walking behind the waggon
with head down-bent and a face on which intense
grief had stamped such an impress as to make it look
far older than his years warranted. Groups of
women stood about, watching the procession with
hard eager eyes, and tongues held in check for a
162
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 163
while, only to wag more vigorously than ever when
the ceremony should be over. Innocent, dressed in
deep black for the first tune in her life, went by her-
self to the churchyard, avoiding the crowd and, hid-
den away among concealing shadows, she heard the
service and watched all the proceedings dry-eyed
and heart-stricken. She could not weep any more
there seemed no tears left to relieve the weight of
her burning brain. Robin had tenderly urged her to
walk with him in the funeral procession, but she
refused.
"How can I! how dare I!" she said "I am not
his daughter I am nothing! The cruel people here
know it! and they would only say my presence
was an insult to the dead. Yes! they would
now! He loved me! and I loved him! but no-
body outside ourselves thinks about that, or cares.
You would hardly believe it, but I have already
been told how wicked it was of me to be dressed
in white when the clergyman called to see me the
morning after Dad's death well, I had no other col-
our to wear till Priscilla got me this sad black gown
it made me shudder to put it on it is like the
darkness itself! you know Dad always made me
wear white and I feel as if I were vexing him some-
how by wearing black. Oh, Robin, be kind! you
always are ! let me go by myself and watch Dad put
to rest where nobody can see me. For after they
have laid him down and left him, they will be talk-
ing!"
She was right enough in this surmise. Not one
who saw Farmer Jocelyn's coffin lowered into the
grave failed to notice the wreath of "Glory" roses
that went with it "from Innocent" ; and her name
was whispered from mouth to mouth with meaning
looks and suggestive nods. And when Robin, with
tears thick in his eyes, flung the first handfuls of
164 INNOCENT
earth rattling down on the coffin lid, his heart ached
to see the lovely fragrant blossoms crushed under
the heavy scattered mould, for it seemed to his fore-
boding mind that they were like the delicate
thoughts and fancies of the girl he loved being cov-
ered by the soiling mud of the world's cruelty and
slander, and killed in the cold and darkness of a
sunless solitude.
All was over at last, the final prayer was said
the final benediction was spoken, and the mourners
gradually dispersed. The Reverend Mr. Medwin,
assisted by his young curate, had performed the
ceremony, and before retiring to the vestry to take
off his surplice, he paused by the newly-made grave
to offer his hand and utter suitable condolences to
Robin Clifford.
"It is a great and trying change for you," he said.
"I suppose" this tentatively "I suppose you will
go on with the farm?"
"As long as I live," answered Clifford, looking
him steadily in the face, "Briar Farm will be what
it has always been."
Mr. Medwin gave him a little appreciative bow.
"We are very glad of that very glad indeed!"
he said "Briar Farm is a great feature a very
great feature! indeed, one may say it is an histori-
cal possession. Something would be lacking hi the
neighbourhood if it were not kept up to its old tra-
dition and er reputation. I think we feel that
I think we feel it, do we not, Mr. Forwood?" here
turning to his curate with affable condescension.
Mark Forwood, a clever-looking young man with
kind eyes and intelligent features, looked at Robin
sympathetically.
"I am quite sure," he said, "that Mr. Clifford will
take as much pride in the fine old place as his uncle
did but is there not Miss Jocelyn? the daughter
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 165
will probably inherit the farm, will she not, as near-
est of kin?"
Mr. Medwin coughed obtrusively and Clifford
felt the warm blood rushing to his brows. Yet he re-
solved that the truth should be told, for the honour
of the dead man's name.
"She is not my uncle's daughter," he said,
quietly "My uncle never married. He adopted
her when she was an infant and she was as dear to
him as if she had been his own child. Of course she
will be amply provided for there can be no doubt
of that."
Mr. Forwood raised his eyes and eyebrows to-
gether.
"You surprise me!" he murmured. "Then there
is no Miss Jocelyn?"
Again Robin coloured. But he answered, com-
posedly
"There is no Miss Jocelyn."
Mr. Medwin's cough here troubled him consider-
ably, and though it was a fine day, he expressed a
mild fear that he was standing too long by the
open grave in his surplice he, therefore, retired,
his curate following him, whereupon the sexton, a
well-known character in the village, approached to
finish the sad task of committing "ashes to ashes,
dust to dust."
"Eh, Mr. Clifford," remarked this worthy, as he
stuck his spade down in the heaped-up earth and
leaned upon it, "it's a black day, forbye the sum-
mer sun! I never thort I'd a' thrown the mouls on
the last Jocelyn. For last he is, an' there'll never be
another like 'im!"
"You're right there, Wixton," said Robin, sadly
"I know the place can never be the same without
him. I shall do my best but "
"Ay, yell do your best," agreed Wixton, with a
166 INNOCENT
foreboding shake of his grizzled head "but you're
not a Jocelyn, an' your best'll be but a bad crutch,
though there's Jocelyn blood hi ye by ye'r mother's
side. Howsomever it's not the same as the male
line, do what we will an' say what we like ! It's not
your fault, no, lad!" this with a pitying look "an'
no one's blamin' ye for what can't be 'elped but
it's not a thing to be gotten over."
Robin's grave nod of acquiescence was more elo-
quent than speech.
Wixton dug his spade a little deeper into the pile
of earth.
"If Farmer Jocelyn 'ad been a marryin' man,
why, that would a' been the right thing," he went
on "He might a' had a fine strappin' son to come
arter 'im, a real born-an'-bred Jocelyn "
Robin listened with acute interest. Why did not
Wixton mention Innocent? Did he know she
was not a Jocelyn? He waited, and Wixton went
on
"But, ye see, 'e wouldn't have none o' that. An'
he took the little gel as was left with 'im the night o'
the great storm nigh eighteen years ago that
blew down three of our biggest elms in the church-
yard "
"Did you know?" exclaimed Clifford, eagerly
"Did you see ?"
"I saw a man on 'orseback ride up to Briar Farm,
'oldin' a baby in front o' him with one hand, and
the reins in t'other an' he came out from the farm
without the baby. Then one mornin' when Farmer
Jocelyn was a-walkin''with the baby in the fields I
said to 'im, secret-like 'That ain't your child!' an'
he sez 'Ow do you know it ain't?' An' I sez 'Be-
cause I saw it come with a stranger' an' he laughed
an' said 'It may be mine for all that!' But I knew
it worn't! A nice little girl she is too, Miss Inno-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 167
cent poor soul! I'm downright sorry for 'er, for
she ain't got many friends in this village."
"Why?" Robin asked, half mechanically.
"Why? Well, she's a bit too dainty-like in 'er
ways for one thing then there's gels who are arter
you, Mister Clifford! ay, ay, ye know they are!
sharp 'ussies, all of 'em! an' they can't abide 'er,
for they thinks you're a-goin' to marry 'er! Lord
forgive me that I should be chitterin' 'ere about
marryin' over a buryin'! but that's the trouble
an' it's the trouble all the world over, wimmin
wantin' a man, an' mad for their lives when they
thinks another woman's arter 'im! Eh, eh! We
should all get along better if there worn't no wimmin
jealousies, but bein' men we've got to put up with
'em. Are ye goin' now, Mister? Well, the Lord love
ye an' comfort ye! ye'll never meet a finer man
this side the next world than the one I'm puttin' a
cold quilt on!"
Silently Clifford turned away, heavy-hearted and
lost in perplexed thought. What was best to be
done for Innocent? This was the chief question
that presented itself to his mind. He could no longer
deny the fact that her position was difficult almost
untenable. Nameless, and seemingly deserted by her
kindred, if any such kindred still existed, she was
absolutely alone in life, now that Hugo Jocelyn was
no more. As he realised this to its fullest intensity,
the deeper and more passionate grew his love for
her.
"If she would only marry me!" he said under his
breath, as he walked home slowly from the church-
yard "It was Uncle Hugo's last wish!"
Then across his brain flashed the memory of Ned
Landon and his malignant intention born of baffled
desire and fierce jealousy to tarnish the fair name
of the girl he coveted, then, his uncle's quixotic
168 INNOCENT
and costly way of ridding himself of such an enemy
at any price. He understood now old Jocelyn's
talk of his "bargain" on the last night of his life,
and what a futile bargain it was, after all! for was
not Jenny of the Mill-Dykes fully informed of the
reason why the bargain was made? and she, the
vilest-tongued woman in the whole neighbourhood,
would take delight in spreading the story far and
wide. Five Hundred Pounds paid down as "hush-
money"! so she would report it thus, even if he
married Innocent it would be under the shadow of a
slur and slander. What was wisest to do under the
circumstances he could not decide and he entered
the smiling garden of Briar Farm with the saddest
expression on his face that anyone had ever seen
there. Priscilla met him as he came towards the
house.
"I thought ye'd never git here, Mister Robin,"
she said, anxiously "Ye haven't forgot there's folks
in the hall 'avin' their 'wake' feed an' they'll be
wantin' to speak wi' ye presently. Mister Bayliss,
which is ye'r uncle's lawyer, 'e wants to see ye mighty
partikler, an' there ain't no one to say nothin' to
'em, for the dear little Innocent, she's come back
from the cold churchyard like a little image o' mar-
ble, an' she's gone an' shut 'erself up in 'er own
room, sayin' 'Ask Mister Robin to excuse me' poor
child! she's fair wore out, that she is! An' you
come into the big 'all where there's the meat and
the wine laid out, for funeral folk eats more than
weddin' folk, bein' longer about it an' a bit solemner
in gettin' of it down."
Robin looked at her with strained, haggard eyes.
"Priscilla," he said, huskily "Death is a horrible
thing!"
"Ay, that it is!" and Priscilla wiped the tear-
drops off her cheeks with a corner of her apron "An'
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 169
I've often thought it seems a silly kind o' business to
bring us into the world at all for no special reason
'cept to take us out of it again just as folks 'ave
learned to know us a bit and find us useful. How-
somever, there's no arguin' wi' the Almighty, an'
p'raps it's us as makes the worst o' death instead o'
the best of it. Now you go into the great hall, Mr.
Robin you're wanted there."
He went, as desired, and was received with a
murmur of sympathy by those assembled a gather-
ing made up of the head men about the farm, and
a few other personages less familiar to the village,
but fairly well known to him, such as corn and cattle
dealers from the neighbouring town who had for
many years done business with Jocelyn in preference
to any other farmer. These came forward and cor-
dially shook hands with Robin, entering at once into
conversation with him concerning his future inten-
tions.
"We should like things to go on the same as if th'
old man were alive," said one, a miller, "We don't
like changes after all these years. But whether
you're up to it, my lad, or not, we don't know and
time'll prove "
"Time will prove," answered Clifford, steadily.
"You may rely upon it that Briar Farm will be
worked on the same methods which my uncle prac-
tised and approved and there will be no changes,
except the inevitable one" and he sighed, "the
want of the true master's brain and hand."
"Eh well! You'll do your best, lad! I'm sure of
that!" and the miller grasped his hand warmly
"And we'll all stick by you! There's no farm like
Briar Farm in the whole country that's my
opinion! it gives the finest soil and the soundest
crops to be got anywhere you just manage it as
Farmer Jocelyn managed it, with men's work, and
170 INNOCENT
you'll come to no harm! And, as I say, we'll all
stick by you!"
Robin thanked him, and then moved slowly in
and out among the other funeral guests, saying
kindly things, and in his quiet, manly way creating
a good impression among them, and making more
friends than he himself was aware of. Presently
Mr. Bayliss, a mild-looking man with round specta-
cles fixed very closely up against his eyes, approached
him, beckoning him with one finger.
"When you're ready, Mr. Clifford," he said, "I
should like to see you in the best parlour and the
young lady I believe she is called Innocent? yes,
yes ! and the young lady also. Oh, there's no hurry
no hurry! better wait till the guests have gone,
as what I have to say concerns only yourself and
er yes er, the young lady before mentioned.
And also a a" here he pulled out a note-book from
his pocket and studied it through his owl-like glasses
"yes! er, yes! a Miss Priscilla Friday she
must be present, if she can be found I believe she
is on the premises?"
"Priscilla is our housekeeper," said Robin "and a
faithful friend."
"Yes I er thought so a devoted friend,"
murmured Mr. Bayliss, meditatively "and what a
thing it is to have a devoted friend, Mr. Clifford!
Your uncle was a careful man! very careful! he
knew whom to trust he thoroughly knew! Yes
we don't all know but he did!"
Robin made no comment. The murmuring talk of
the funeral party went on, buzzing in his ears like
the noise of an enormous swarm of bees he watched
men eating and drinking the good things Priscilla
had provided for the "honour of the farm" and
then, on a sudden impulse he slipped out of the hall
and upstairs to Innocent's room, where he knocked
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 171
softly at the door. She opened it at once, and stood
before him her face white as a snowdrop, and her
eyes heavy and strained with the weight of unshed
tears.
"Dear," he said, gently "you will be wanted
downstairs in a few minutes Mr. Bayliss wishes you
to be present when he reads Uncle Hugo's will."
She made a little gesture of pain and dissent.
"I do not want to hear it," she said "but I will
come."
He looked at her with anxiety and tenderness.
"You have eaten nothing since early morning;
you look so pale and weak let me get you some-
thing a glass of wine."
"No, thank you," she answered "I could not
touch a morsel not just yet. Oh, Robin, it hurts
me to hear all those voices in the great hall! men
eating and drinking there, as if he were still alive!
and they have only just laid him down in the cold
earth so cold and dark!"
She shuddered violently.
"I do not think it is right," she went on "to al-
low people to love each other at all if death must
separate them for ever. It seems only a cruelty and
wickedness. Now that I have seen what death can
do, I will never love anyone again!"
"No I suppose you will not," he said, somewhat
bitterly "yet, you have never known what love is
you do not understand it."
She sighed, deeply.
"Perhaps not!" she said "And I'm not sure that
I want to understand it not now. What love I
had in my heart is all buried with Dad and the
roses. I am not the same girl any more I feel a
different creature grown quite old!"
"You cannot feel older than I do," he replied
"but you do not think of me at all, why should
172 INNOCENT
you? I never used to think you selfish, Innocent!
you have always been so careful and considerate of
the feelings of others yet now! well! are you not
so much absorbed in your own grief as to be forget-
ful of mine? For mine is a double grief a double
loss I have lost my uncle and best friend and I
shall lose you because you will not love me, though
I love you with all my heart and only want to make
you happy!"
Her sad eyes met his with a direct, half-reproach-
ful gaze.
"You think me selfish?"
"No! no, Innocent! but- "
"I see!" she said "You think I ought to sacrifice
myself to you, and to Dad's last wish. You would
expect me to spoil your life by marrying you un-
willingly and without love "
"I tell you you know nothing about love!" he
interrupted her, impatiently.
"So you imagine," she answered quietly "but I
do know one thing and it is that no one who really
loves a person wishes to see that person unhappy.
To love anybody means that above all things in the
world you desire to see the beloved one well and
prosperous and full of gladness. You cannot love me
or you would not wish me to do a thing that would
make me miserable. If I loved you, I would marry
you and devote my life to yours but I do not love
you, and, therefore, I should only make you wretched
if I became your wife. Do not let us talk of this any
more it tires me out!"
She passed her hand over her forehead with a
weary gesture.
"It is wrong to talk of ourselves at all when Dad
is only just buried," she continued. "You say Mr.
Bayliss wants to see me very well! in a few min-
utes I will come."
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 173
She stepped back inside her little room and shut
the door. Clifford walked away, resentful and
despairing. There was something in her manner
that struck him as new and foreign to her usual sweet
and equable nature, a grave composure, a kind of
intellectual hardness that he had never before seen
in her. And he wondered what such a change might
portend.
Downstairs, the funeral party had broken up
many of the mourners had gone, and others were
going. Some lingered to the last possible moment
that their intimacy or friendship with the deceased
would allow, curious to hear something of the will
what the amount of the net cash was that had been
left, and how it had been disposed. But Mr. Bayliss,
the lawyer, was a cautious man, and never gave him-
self away at any point. To all suggestive hints and
speculative theories he maintained a dignified re-
serve and it was not until the last of the guests
had departed that he made his way to the vacant
"best parlour," and sat there with his chair pulled
well up to the table and one or two legal-looking
documents in front of him. Robin Clifford joined
him there, taking a seat opposite to him and both
men waited in more or less silence till the door
opened softly to admit Innocent, who came in with
Priscilla.
Mr. Bayliss rose.
"I'm sorry to have to disturb you, Miss er Miss
Innocent," he said, with some awkwardness "on
this sad occasion "
"It is no trouble," she answered, gently "if I can
be of any use "
Mr. Bayliss waited till she sat down, then again
seated himself.
"Well, there is really no occasion to go over legal
formalities," he said, opening one of the documents
174 INNOCENT
before him "Your uncle, Mr. Clifford, was a busi-
ness man, and made his will in a business-like way.
Briefly, I may tell you that Briar Farm, its lands,
buildings, and all its contents are left to you who
are identified thus 'to my nephew, Robin Clifford,
only son of my only sister, the late Elizabeth Joce-
lyn, widow of John Clifford, wholesale trader in
French wines, and formerly resident in the City of
London, on condition that the said Robin Clifford
shall keep and maintain the farm and house as they
have always been kept and maintained. He shall
not sell any part of the land for building purposes,
nor shall he dispose of any of the furniture, pewter,
plate, china, glass, or other effects belonging to Briar
Farm House, but shall carefully preserve the same
and hand them down to his lawful heirs in succession
on the same terms as heretofore' etc., etc., yes!
well! that is the gist of the business, and we need
not go over the details. With the farm and lands
aforesaid he leaves the sum of Twenty Thousand
Pounds "
"Twenty Thousand Pounds!" ejaculated Robin,
amazed "Surely my uncle was never so rich !"
"He was a saving man and a careful one," said
Mr. Bayliss, calmly, "You may take it for granted,
Mr. Clifford, that his money was made through the
course of his long life, in a thoroughly honest and
straightforward manner!"
"Oh that, of course! but Twenty Thousand
Pounds!"
"It is a nice little fortune," said Mr. Bayliss
"and you come into it at a time of life when you will
be able to make good use of it. Especially if you
should be inclined to marry "
His eyes twinkled meaningly as they glanced from
Clifford's face to that of Innocent the young man's
expression was absorbed and earnest, but the girl
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 175
looked lost and far away in a dream of her own.
"I shall not marry," said Robin, slowly "I shall
use the money entirely for the good of the farm
and the work-people "
"Then, if you do not marry, you allow the tradi-
tion of heritage to lapse?" suggested Mr. Bayliss.
"It has lapsed already," he replied "I am not a
real descendant of the Jocelyns "
"By the mother's side you are," said Mr. Bayliss
"and your mother being dead, it is open to you to
take the name of Jocelyn by law, and continue the
lineage. It would be entirely fair and reasonable."
Robin made no answer. Mr. Bayliss settled his
glasses more firmly on his nose, and went on with
his documents.
"Mr. Jocelyn speaks in his Last Will and Testa-
ment of the 'great love' he entertained for his
adopted child, known as 'Innocent' and he gives to
her all that is contained in the small oak chest in the
best parlour this is the best parlour, I presume?"
looking round "Can you point out the oak chest
mentioned?"
Innocent rose, and moved to a corner, where she
lifted out of a recess a small quaintly made oaken
casket, brass-bound, with a heavy lock.
Mr. Bayliss looked at it with a certain amount of
curiosity.
"The key?" he suggested "I believe the late Mr.
Jocelyn always wore it on his watch-chain."
Robin got up and went to the mantelpiece.
"Here is my uncle's watch and chain," he said, in a
hushed voice "The watch has stopped. I do not
intend that it shall ever go again I shall keep it
put by with the precious treasures of the house."
Mr. Bayliss made no remark on this utterance,
which to him was one of mere sentiment and taking
the watch and chain in his hand, detached there-
176 INNOCENT
from a small key. With this he opened the oak cas-
ket and looked carefully inside. Taking out a sealed
packet, he handed it to Innocent.
"This is for you," he said "and this also" here
he lifted from the bottom of the casket a flat jewel-
case of antique leather embossed in gold.
"This," he continued, "Mr. Jocelyn explained to
me, is a necklet of pearls traditionally believed to
have been given by the founder of the house, Ama-
dis de Jocelin, to his wife on their wedding-day. It
has been worn by every bride of the house since. I
hope yes I very much hope it will be worn by
the young lady who now inherits it."
And he passed the jewel-case over the table to
Innocent, who sat silent, with the sealed packet she
had just received lying before her. She took it
passively, and opened it a beautiful row of pearls,
not very large, but wonderfully perfect, lay within
clasped by a small, curiously designed diamond snap.
She looked at them with half-wondering, half-indif-
ferent eyes then closed the case and gave it to
Robin Clifford.
"They are for your wife when you marry," she
said "Please keep them."
Mr. Bayliss coughed a cough of remonstrance.
"Pardon me, my dear young lady, but Mr. Jocelyn
was particularly anxious the pearls should be
yours "
She looked at him, gravely.
"Yes I am sure he was," she said "He was al-
ways good too good and generous but if they are
mine, I give them to Mr. Clifford. There is nothing
more to be said about them."
Mr. Bayliss coughed again.
"Well that is all that is contained in this casket,
with the exception of a paper unsealed shall I read
it?"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 177
She bent her head.
"The paper is written in Mr. Jocelyn's own hand,
and is as follows," continued the lawyer: "I desire
that my adopted child, known as 'Innocent,' shall
receive into her own possession the Jocelyn pearls,
valued by experts at 2,500, and that she shall wear
the same on her marriage-morning. The sealed
packet, placed in this casket with the pearls afore-
said, contains a letter for her own personal and pri-
vate perusal, and other matter which concerns her-
self alone."
Mr. Bayliss here looked up, and addressed her.
"From these words it is evident that the sealed
packet you have there is an affair of confidence."
She laid her hand upon it.
"I quite understand!"
He adjusted his glasses, and turned over his docu-
ments once more.
"Then I think there is nothing more we need
trouble you with oh yes! one thing Miss er
Miss Friday ?"
Priscilla, who during the whole conversation had
sat bolt upright on a chair in the corner of the
room, neither moving nor speaking, here rose and
curtsied.
The lawyer looked at her attentively.
"Friday Miss Priscilla Friday?"
"Yes, sir that's me," said Priscilla, briefly.
"Mr. Jocelyn thought very highly of you, Miss
Friday," he said "he mentions you in the following
paragraph of his will 'I give and bequeath to my
faithful housekeeper and good friend, Priscilla Fri-
day, the sum of Two Hundred Pounds for her own
personal use, and I desire that she shall remain at
Briar Farm for the rest of her life. And that, if
she shall find it necessary to resign her duties in the
farm house, she shall possess that cottage on my es-
178 INNOCENT
tate known as Rose Cottage, free of all charges, and
be allowed to live there and be suitably and com-
fortably maintained till the end of her days. And,
er pray don't distress yourself, Miss Friday!"
For Priscilla was crying, and making no effort to
hide her emotion.
"Bless 'is old 'art!" she sobbed "He thort of
everybody, 'e did! An' what shall I ever want o'
Rose Cottage, as is the sweetest o' little places, when
I've got the kitchen o' Briar Farm! an' there I'll
'ope to do my work plain an' true till I drops! so
there! an' I'm much obliged to ye, Mr. Bayliss, an'
mebbe ye'll tell me where to put the two 'underd
pounds so as I don't lose it, for I never 'ad so much
money in my life, an' if any one gets to 'ear of it I'll
'ave all the 'alt an' lame an' blind round me in a
jiffy. An' as for keepin' money, I never could an'
p'raps it 'ud be best for Mr. Robin to look arter
it " Here she stopped, out of breath with talk
and tears.
"It will be all right," said Mr. Bayliss, soothingly,
"quite all right, I assure you! Mr. Clifford will no
doubt see to any little business matter for you with
great pleasure "
"Dear Priscilla!" and Innocent went to her side
and put an arm round her neck "Don't cry! you
will be so happy, living always in this dear old place!
and Robin will be so glad to have you with him."
Priscilla took the little hand that caressed her, and
kissed it.
"Ah, my lovey!" she half whispered "I should
be 'appy enough if I thought you was a-goin' to be
'appy too! but you're flyin' in the face o' fortune,
lovey! that's what you're a-doin'!"
Innocent silenced her with a gesture, and stood
beside her, patiently listening till Mr. Bayliss had
concluded his business.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 179
"I think, Mr. Clifford," he then said, at last
"there is no occasion to trouble you further. Every-
thing is in perfect order you are the inheritor of
Briar Farm and all its contents, with all its adjoining
lands and the only condition attached to your in-
heritance is that you keep it maintained on the same
working methods by which it has always been main-
tained. You will find no difficulty in doing this and
you have plenty of money to do it on. There are a
few minor details respecting farm stock, etc., which
we can go over together at any time. You are sole
executor, of course and and er yes! I think
that is all."
"May I go now?" asked Innocent, lifting her seri-
ous blue-grey eyes to his face "Do you want me
any more?"
Mr. Bayliss surveyed her curiously.
"No I er I think not," he replied "Of course
the pearls should be in your possession "
"I have given them away/' she said, quickly
"to Robin."
"But I have not accepted them," he answered
"I will keep them if you like for you."
She gave a slight, scarcely perceptible movement
of vexation, and then, taking up the sealed packet
which was addressed to her personally, she left the
room.
The lawyer looked after her in a little perplexity.
"I'm afraid she takes her loss rather badly," he
said "or perhaps is she a little absent-minded?"
Robin Clifford smiled, sadly.
"I think not," he answered. "Of course she feels
the death of my uncle deeply she adored him and
then I suppose you know my uncle may have told
you "
"That he hoped and expected you to marry her?"
said Mr. Bayliss, nodding his head, sagaciously
180 INNOCENT
"Yes I am aware that such was his dearest wish.
In fact he led me to believe that the matter was as
good as settled."
"She will not have me," said Clifford, gently
"and I cannot compel her to marry me against her
will indeed I would not if I could."
The lawyer was so surprised that he was obliged to
take off his glasses and polish them.
"She will not have you!" he exclaimed. "Dear
me! That is indeed most unexpected and distress-
ing! There is there is nothing against you, surely?
you are quite a personable young man "
Robin shrugged his shoulders, disdainfully.
"Whatever I am does not matter to her," he said
"Let us talk no more about it."
Priscilla looked from one to the other.
"Eh well!" she said "If any one knows 'er at all
'tis I as 'ave 'ad 'er with me night an' day when she
was a baby and 'as watched 'er grow into the little
beauty she is, an' 'er 'ed's just fair full o' strange
fancies that she's got out o' the books she found in
the old knight's chest years ago we must give 'er
time to think a bit an' settle. 'Tis an awful blow to
'er to lose 'er Dad, as she allus called Farmer Joce-
lyn she's like a little bird fallen out o' the nest with
no strength to use 'er wings an' not knowin' where
to go. Let 'er settle a bit! that's what I sez an'
you'll see I'm right. You leave 'er alone, Mister
Robin, an' all'll come right, never fear! She's got
the queerest notions about love she picked 'em out
o' they old books an' she'll 'ave to find out they's
more lies than truth. Love's a poor 'oldin' for most
folks it don't last long enough."
Mr. Bayliss permitted himself to smile, as he took
his hat, and prepared to go.
"I'm sure you're quite right, Miss Friday!" he
said "you speak er most sensibly! I'm sure I
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 181
hope, for the young lady's sake, that she will 'settle
down' if she does not "
"Ay, if she does not!" echoed Clifford.
"Well! if she does not, life may be difficult for
her" and the lawyer shook his head forebodingly
"A girl alone in the world with no relatives! ah,
dear, dear me! A sad look-out! a very sad look-
out! But we must trust to her good sense that she
will be wise in time!"
CHAPTER X
UPSTAIRS, shut in her own little room with the
door locked, Innocent opened the sealed packet. She
found within it a letter and some bank-notes. With
a sensitive pain which thrilled every nerve in her
body she unfolded the letter, written in Hugo Joce-
lyn's firm clear writing a writing she knew so well,
and which bore no trace of weakness or failing in the
hand that guided the pen. How strange it was, she
thought, that the written words should look so liv-
ing and distinct when the writer was dead! Her
head swam her eyes were dim for a moment she
could scarcely see then the mist before her slowly
dispersed and she read the first words, which made
her heart swell and the tears rise in her aching throat.
"My LITTLE WILDING! When you read this I
shall be gone to that wonderful world which all the
clergymen tell us about, but which none of them are
in any great hurry to see for themselves. I hope
and I sometimes believe such a world exists and
that perhaps it is a place where a man may sow seed
and raise crops as well and as prosperously as on
Briar Farm however, I'm praying I may not be
taken till I've seen you 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 it with the pearls that are, by my will, destined
for you on your marriage-morning. I'm writing it,
remember, on the same night I've told you all about
yourself the night of the day the doctor gave me
182
my death-warrant. I may live a year, I may live
but a week, it will be hard if I may not live to see
you married! but God's will must be done. The
bank-notes folded in this letter make up four hun-
dred pounds and this money you can spend as you
like on your clothes for the bridal, or on anything
you fancy I place no restriction on you as to 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 to Robin,
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 for the world is hard
on a woman left alone as you would be, were it not
for him. I give you my word that if I had any clue,
however small, to your real parentage, I would write
down here for you all I know but I know nothing
more than I have told you. I have loved you as my
own child and you have been the joy of my old days.
May God bless you and give you joy and peace in
Briar Farm! you and your children, and your chil-
dren's children! Amen!
"Your 'Dad'
"HUGO JOCELYN."
She read this to the end, and then some tension in
her brain seemed to relax, and she wept long and
bitterly, her head bent down on the letter and her
bright hair falling over it. Presently, checking her
sobs, she rose, and looked about her in a kind of
dream the familiar little room seemed to have sud-
denly become strange to her, and she thought she
saw standing in one corner a figure clad in armour,
its vizor was up, showing a sad pale face and melan-
choly eyes the lips moved and a sighing murmur
floated past her ears "Mon cceur me soutien!" A
184 INNOCENT
cold terror seized her, and she trembled from head
to foot then the vision or hallucination vanished as
swiftly and mysteriously as it had appeared. Rally-
ing her forces, she gradually mastered the overpower-
ing fear which for a moment had possessed her, and
folding up Hugo Jocelyn's last letter, she kissed it,
and placed it in her bosom. The bank-notes were
four in number each for one hundred pounds;
these she put in an envelope, and shut them in the
drawer containing her secret manuscript.
"Now the way is clear!" she said "I can do what
I like I have my wings, and I can fly away! Oh
Dad, dear Dad! you would be so unhappy if you
knew what I mean to do! it would break your
heart, Dad! but you have no heart to break now,
poor Dad! it is cold as stone! it will never beat
any more! Mine is the heart that beats! the
heart that burns, and aches, and hurts me! ah!
how it hurts ! And no one can understand no one
will ever care to understand!"
She locked her manuscript-drawer then went and
bathed her eyes, which smarted with the tears she
had shed. Looking at herself in the mirror she saw
a pale plaintive little creature, without any fresh-
ness of beauty all the vitality seemed gone out of
her. Smoothing her ruffled hair, she twisted it up in
a loose coil at the back of her head, and studied
with melancholy dislike and pain the heavy effect
of her dense black draperies against her delicate skin.
"I shall do for anything now," she said "No one
will look at me, and I shall pass quite unnoticed in
a crowd. I'm glad I'm not a pretty girl 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 but Priscilla would not allow her to do
anything in the way of what she called "chores."
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 185
"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 the rest o' the day an'
night with Mr. Bayliss, as there's lots o' things to
see to, an' 'e left you this little note" here Priscilla
produced a small neatly folded paper from her apron
pocket "an' sez 'e 'Give this to Miss Innocent,'
'e sez, 'an' she won't mind my bein' out o' the way
it'll be better for 'er to be quiet a bit with you'
an' so it will, lovey, for sometimes a man about the
'ouse is a worrit an' a burden, 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 at his house for the night there
are many business matters we have to go into to-
gether, and it is important for me to thoroughly un-
derstand the position of my uncle's affairs. If I can-
not manage to get back to-morrow, I will let you
know. Robin."
She heaved a sigh of intense relief. For twenty-
four hours at least she was free from love's impor-
tunity she could be alone to think, and to plan.
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'll come 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 too much o' that there blessed old
figure! why, what's 'e got to do with you, my
pretty?"
"Nothing!" and the colour came to her pale cheeks
for a moment, and then fled back again "He never
had anything to do with me, really! But I seem to
know him."
Priscilla gave a kind of melancholy snort and the
186 INNOCENT
girl moved slowly away through the open door and
beyond it, out among the radiant flowers. Her little
figure in deep black was soon lost to sight, and after
watching her for a minute, Priscilla turned to her
home-work with tears 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 a thrush 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' 'er as a baby, 'opin' agin 'ope as 'er
parents 'ud turn up an' be sorry for the loss of 'er
but never a sign of a soul! an' now she's grow'd up
she's thorts in 'er 'ed which ain't easy to unnerstand
for since Mister Jocelyn told 'er the tale of 'erself
she's not been the same like she's got suddin old!"
The afternoon was very peaceful and beautiful
the sun shone warmly over the smooth meadows of
Briar Farm, and reddened the apples in the orchard
yet a little more tenderly, flashing in flecks of gold on
the "Glory" roses, and touching the wings of flutter-
ing doves with arrowy silver gleams. No one looking
at the fine old house, with its picturesque gables and
latticed windows, would have thought that its last
master of lawful lineage was dead and buried, and
that the funeral had taken place that morning. Briar
Farm, though.more than three centuries old, seemed
full of youthful life and promise a vital fact, des-
tined to outlast many more human lives than those
which in the passing of three hundred years had al-
ready left their mark upon it, and it was strange and
incredible to realise that the long chain of lineally
descended male ancestors had broken at last, and
that no remaining link survived to carry on the old
tradition. Sadly and slowly Innocent walked across
the stretches of warm clover-scented grass to the an-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 187
cient tomb of the "Sieur Amadis" and sat down be-
side it, not far from 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
towards the horizon in a mellow mist of orange-col-
oured radiance, the day was drawing to an end
the fateful, wretched day which had seen the best
friend she had ever known, and whom for years she
had adored and revered as her own "father," laid in
the dust to perish among perishable things.
"I wish I had died instead of him," she said, half
aloud "or else that I had never been born! Oh,
dear 'Sieur Amadis'! you know how hard it is to
live in the world unless some one wants you unless
some one loves you! and no one wants me no one
loves me except Robin!"
Solitary, and full of the heaviest sadness, she tried
to think and to form plans but her mind was tired,
and she could come to no decisive resolution beyond
the one all-convincing necessity that of leaving
Briar Farm. Of course she must go, there was no
other alternative. And now, thanks to Hugo Joce-
lyn's forethought in giving her money for her bridal
"pretties," no financial difficulty stood in the way of
her departure. She must go but where? To begin
with, she had no name. She would have to invent
one for herself
"Yes!" she murmured "I must invent a name
and make it famous!" Involuntarily she clenched
her small hand as though she held some prize within
its soft grasp. "Why not? Other people have done
the same -I can but try ! If I fail !"
Her delicate fingers relaxed, in her imagination
she saw some coveted splendour slip from her hold,
and her little face grew set and serious as though she
had already suffered a whole life's disillusion.
"I can but try," she repeated "something urges
188 INNOCENT
me on something tells me I may succeed. And
then !"
Her eyes brightened slowly a faint rose flushed
her cheeks, and with the sudden change of expres-
sion, she became almost beautiful. Herein lay her
particular charm, the rarest of all in women, the
passing of the lights and shadows of thought over
features which responded swiftly and emotionally
to the prompting and play of the mind.
"I should have to go," she went on "even if Dad
were still alive. I could not I cannot marry Robin !
I do not want to marry anybody. It is the com-
mon lot of women why they should envy or desire
it, I cannot think ! To give one's self up entirely to
a man's humours to be glad of his caresses, and mis-
erable when he is angry or tired to bear his chil-
dren 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 of monotony, sick-
ness, pain, and fatigue! and nothing higher done
than what animals can do! There are plenty of
women in the world who like to stay on this level,
I suppose but I should not like it, I could not live
in this beautiful, wonderful world with no higher
ambition than a sheep or a cow ! "
At that moment she suddenly saw Priscilla run-
ning from the house across the meadow, and beckon-
ing to her in evident haste and excitement. She got
up at once and ran to meet her, flying across the
grass with light airy feet as swiftly as Atalanta.
"What is it?" she cried, seeing Priscilla's face,
crimson with hurry and 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 from London in the best parlour she
asked for Farmer Jocelyn's adopted daughter named
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 189
Innocent. And she gave me her card here it is"
and Priscilla wiped her face and gasped again as
Innocent took the card and read "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 grand folks what
likes to buy old furniture, an' mebbe somebody's
told 'er about Briar Farm things, an' 'ow they might
p'raps be sold now the master's gone "
"But that would be very silly and wicked talk,"
said Innocent. "Nothing will be sold Robin
would never allow it "
"Well, come an' see the lady," and Priscilla hur-
ried her along "She said she wished to see you par-
tikler. 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 her business was important,
an' if you could see 'er "
"Is she young?"
"No, she's not young but she isn't old," replied
Priscilla "She's wonderful good-looking an' dressed
beautiful! I never see such clothes cut out o' blue
serge ! An' she's got a scent about her like our still-
room when we're makin' pot-purry bags for the
linen."
By this time they had reached the house, and In-
nocent went straight into the best parlour. Her un-
expected and unknown visitor stood there near the
window, looking out on the beds of flowers, but
turned round as she entered. For a moment they
confronted each other in silence, Innocent gazing
in mute astonishment and enquiry at the tall, grace-
ful, self-possessed woman, who, evidently of the
190 INNOCENT
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 fright-
ened her, though she knew 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 "and I also wish to talk to you.
In case anyone may be about listening, will you shut
the door?"
With increasing nervousness and bewilderment,
Innocent obeyed.
"You had my card, I think?" continued the
lady, smiling ever so slightly "I gave it to the
servant "
Innocent held it half crumpled in her hand.
"Yes," she said, trying to rally her self-possession
"Lady Maude Blythe -"
"Exactly! you have quite a nice pronunciation!
May I sit down?" and, without waiting for the
required permission, Lady Blythe sank indolently
into the old oaken arm-chair where Farmer Jocelyn
had so long been accustomed to sit, and, taking out
a cobweb of a handkerchief powerfully scented,
passed it languorously across her lips and brow.
"You have had a very sad day of it, I fear!" she
continued "Deaths and funerals are such unpleas-
ant affairs ! But the farmer Mr. Jocelyn was not
your father, was he?" The question was put with
a repetition of the former slight, cold smile.
"No," and the girl looked at her wonderingly
"but he was better than my own father who deserted
me!"
"Dear me! Your own father deserted you! How
shocking of him!" and Lady Blythe turned a pair
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 191
of brilliant dark eyes full on the pale little face con-
fronting her "And your mother?"
"She deserted me, too."
"What a reprehensible couple!" Here Lady
Blythe extended a delicately gloved 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 know you. I cannot understand
why you have come to see me if you would ex-
plain
While she thus spoke Lady Blythe had surveyed
her scrutinisingly through a gold-mounted lorgnon.
"Quite a proud little person it is!" she remarked,
and smiled "Quite proud ! I suppose I really must
explain ! Only I do hope you will not make a scene.
Nothing is so unpleasant! And such bad form!
Please sit down!"
Innocent placed a chair close to the table so that
she could lean her arm on that friendly board and
steady her trembling little frame. When she was
seated, Lady Blythe again looked at her critically
through the lorgnon. Then she continued
"Well, I must first tell you that I have always
known your history such a romance, isn't it! You
were brought here as a baby by a man on horseback
and he left you with the good old farmer who has
taken care of you ever since. I am right? Yes!
I'm quite sure about it because I knew the man
the curious sort of parental Lochinvar! 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 an artist a rather famous one in
his way half French and very good-looking. Yes,
192 INNOCENT
he certainly was remarkably good-looking! We ran
away together most absurd of us but we did.
Please don't look at me like that! you remind me
of Sara Bernhardt in 'La Tosca'!"
Innocent's eyes were indeed full of something like
positive terror. Her heart beat violently she felt
a strange dread, and a foreboding that chilled 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 is quite a de-
lightful sensation, of course, but it doesn't last. They
don't know the world and they never calculate re-
sults. However, we had quite a good time together.
We went to Devon and Cornwall, and he painted
pictures and made love to me and it was all very
nice and pretty. Then, of course, trouble came, and
we had to get out of it as best we could we were
both tired of each other and quarrelled dreadfully,
so we decided to give each other up. Only you were
in the way!"
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 suppose you've lived such a
strange sort of hermit life down here that you know
nothing. 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 as stupid as an owl ! I've told
you I ran away with a man I wouldn't marry him,
though he asked me to I should have been tied up
for life, and I didn't want that so we decided to
separate. And he undertook to get rid of the
baby "
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 193
"Me!" cried Innocent, wildly "oh, dear God! It
was me!"
"Yes it was you but you needn't be tragic about
it!" said Lady Blythe, calmly "I think, on the
whole, you were fortunately placed and I was -told
where you were "
"You were told? oh, you were told! and you
never came! And you you are my mother!"
and overpowered by the shock of emotion, the girl
sank back on her chair, and burying her head in
her hands, sobbed bitterly. Lady Blythe looked at
her in meditative silence.
"What a tiresome creature!" she murmured, under
her breath "Quite undisciplined! No repose of
manner no style whatever! And apparently very
little sense ! I think it's a pity I came, a mistaken
sense of duty!"
Aloud she said
"I hope you're not going to cry very long! Won't
you get it over? I thought you would be glad to
know me and I've come out of pure kindness to
you, simply because I heard your old farmer was
dead. Why Pierce Armitage should have brought
you to him I never could imagine except that once
he was painting a picture in the neighbourhood and
was rather taken with the history of this place
Briar Farm isn't it called? You'll make your eyes
quite sore if you go on crying like that ! Yes I am
your mother most unfortunately! I hoped you
would never know it! but now as you are left
quite alone in the world, I have come to see what
I can do for you."
Innocent checked her sobs, and lifting her head
looked straight into the rather shallow bright eyes
that regarded her with such cold and easy scrutiny.
"You can do nothing for me," she answered, in
a low voice "You never have done anything for
194 INNOCENT
me. If you are my mother, you are an unnatural
one!" And moved by a sudden, swift emotion, she
stood up with indignation and scorn lighting every
feature of her face. "I was in your way at my birth
and you were glad to be rid of me. Why should
you seek me now?"
Lady Blythe glanced her over amusedly.
"Really, you would do well on the stage!" she
said "If you were taller, you would make your
fortune with that tragic manner! It is quite wasted
on me, I assure you! I've told you a very simple
commonplace truth a thing that happens every day
a silly couple run away together, madly in love,
and deluded by the idea that love will last they get
into trouble and have a child naturally, as they are
not married, the child is in the way, and they get
rid of it some people would have killed it, you
know! Your father was quite a kind-hearted per-
son and his one idea was to place you where there
were no other children, and where you would have
a chance of being taken care of. So he brought you
to Briar Farm and he told me where he had left
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 always a 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! and I heard he died in Paris of influenza or
pneumonia or something or other. But as I was mar-
ried then, it didn't matter."
Innocent's deep-set, sad eyes studied her "mother"
with strange wistfulness.
"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 so handsome and very fascinating in
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 195
his way but he could be a terrible bore, and he had
a very bad temper. I was thankful when we sep-
arated. But I have made my own private enquiries
about you, from time to time I always had rather
a curiosity about you, as I have had no other chil-
dren. 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 have let me grow up without any
knowledge of you! you who had no shame in leav-
ing me here to live on the charity of a stranger!
you who never cared at all for the child you brought
into the world ! can you imagine that / could care
now?'
"Well, really," smiled Lady Blythe "I'm not sure
that I have asked you to care! I have simply come
here to tell you that you we not entirely *lne m
the world, and that I, knowing myself to be your
mother (although it happened so long ago I can
hardly believe I was ever such a fool!) am willing
to do something for you especially as I have
no children by my second marriage. I will, in
fact, 'adopt' you!" and she laughed a pretty,
musical laugh like a chime of little silver bells.
"Lord Blythe will be delighted he's a kind old per-
son!"
Innocent looked at her gravely and steadily.
"Do you mean to say that you will own me?
name me? acknowledge me as your daughter "
"Why, certainly not!" and Lady Blythe's eyes
flashed over her in cold disdain "What are you
thinking of? You are not legitimate and you really
196 INNOCENT
have no lawful name besides, I'm not bound to do
anything at all for you now you are old enough to
earn your own living. But I'm quite a good-natured
woman, and as I have said already I have no other
children 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 I ever made such
an idiot of myself as to have you at all is a little too
much to ask! Lord Blythe would never forgive
me!"
"So you would make me live a life of deception
with you!" said Innocent "You would make me
pretend to be what I am not just as you pretend to
be what you are not! and yet you say I am your
child! Oh God, 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
you would own me; my shame in saying that such
a woman is my mother would be greater than yours
in saying that I am your child! For the stigma of
my birth is not my fault, but yours! I am, as my
father called me 'innocent'!"
Her breath came and went quickly a crimson
flush was on her cheeks she looked transfigured
beautiful. Lady Blythe stared at her in wide-eyed
disdain.
"You are exceedingly rude and stupid," she said
"You talk like a badly- trained actress! And you
are quite blind to your own interests. Now please
remember that if you refuse the offer I make you, I
shall never trouble about you again you will have
to sink or swim and you can do nothing for yourself
without even a name "
"Have you never heard," interrupted Innocent,
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 197
suddenly, "that it is quite possible to make a
name?"
Her "mother" was for the moment startled she
looked so intellectually strong and inspired.
"Have you never thought," she went on "even
you, in your strange life of hypocrisy "
"Hypocrisy!" exclaimed Lady Blythe "How dare
you say such a thing!"
"Of course it is hypocrisy," said the girl, resolutely
"You are married to a man who knows nothing of
your past life is not that hypocrisy? You are a great
lady, no doubt you have everything you want in
this world, except children one child you had in
me, and you let me be taken from you yet you
would pretend to 'adopt' me though you know I am
your own! Is not that hypocrisy?"
Lady Blythe for a moment tightened her lips
in a line of decided temper then she smiled ironi-
cally.
"It is tact," she said "and good manners. So-
ciety lives by certain conventions, and we must be
careful not to outrage them. In your own interests
you should be glad to learn how to live suitably with-
out offence to others around you."
Innocent looked at her with straight and relent-
less scorn.
"I have done that," she answered "so far. I shall
continue to do it. I do not want any help from you!
I would rather die than owe you anything! Please
understand this! You say I am your daughter, and
I suppose I must believe it but the knowledge
brings me sorrow and shame. And I must work
my way out of this sorrow and shame, somehow!
I will do all I can to retrieve the damaged life you
have given me. I never knew my mother was alive
and now I wish to forget it! If my father lived,
I would go to him "
198 INNOCENT
"Would you indeed!" and Lady Ely the rose, shak-
ing her elegant skirts, and preening herself like a
bird preparing for flight "I'm afraid you would
hardly receive a parental welcome! Fortunately for
himself and for me, he is dead, so you are quite
untrammelled by any latent notions of filial duty.
And you will never see me again after to-day!"
"No?" and the interrogation was put with the
slightest inflection of satire so fine as to be scarcely
perceptible but Lady Blythe caught it, and flushed
angrily.
"Of course not ! " she said "Do you think you, in
your position of a mere 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 are relieved 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 it is that I have told you
that I, Lady Blythe, wife of a peer, and moving
in the highest ranks of society, am willing to take
charge of you, feed you, clothe you, bring you out
and marry you well? Do you understand, and still
refuse?"
"I understand and I still refuse," replied Inno-
cent "I would accept, if you owned me as your
daughter to your husband and to all the world
but as your 'adopted' child as a lie under your roof
I refuse absolutely and entirely! Are you aston-
ished that I should wish to live truly instead of
falsely?"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 199
Lady Blythe gathered her priceless lace scarf round
her elegant shoulders.
"I begin to think it must have been all a bad
dream!" she said, and laughed softly "My little
affair with your father cannot have really happened,
and you cannot really be my child ! I must consider
it in that light! I feel I have done my part in the
matter by coming here to see you and talk to you and
make what I consider a very kind and reasonable
proposition you have refused it and there is no
more to be said." She settled her dainty hat more
piquantly on her rich dark hair, and smiled agree-
ably. "Will you show me the way out? I left my
motor-car on the high-road my chauffeur did not
care to bring it down your rather muddy back lane."
Innocent said nothing but merely opened the
door and stood aside for her visitor to pass. A curi-
ous tightening at her heart oppressed her as she
thought that this elegant, self-possessed, exquisitely
attired creature was actually her "mother!" and*
she could have cried out with the pain which was so
hard to bear. Suddenly Lady Blythe came to an
abrupt 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 her eyes were full of
tears. Her lips quivered Lady Blythe stooped and
kissed them lightly.
"There! be a good girl!" she said. "You have
the most extraordinary high-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 you would like to come to me, my offer to you
still holds good. After that well! as you yourself
said, you will have no mother!"
200 INNOCENT
"I have never had one!" answered Innocent, in
low choked accents "And I shall never have
one!"
Lady Blythe smiled a cold, amused smile, and
passed out through the hall 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 the way? Thanks ever so much!" This, as
Innocent opened the gate "Let me see! I go up
the old by-road? yes? and the main road joins it
at the summit? No, pray don't trouble to come with
me I can find my car quite easily! Good-bye!"
And picking up her dainty skirt with one ungloved
hand, on which two diamond rings shone like circlets
of dew, she nodded, smiled, and went her way
Innocent standing at the gate and watching her go
with a kind of numbed patience as though she saw
a figure in a dream vanishing slowly with Hie dawn
of day. In truth she could hardly grasp the full
significance of what had happened she did not feel,
even remotely, the slightest attraction towards this
suddenly declared "mother" of hers she could
hardly believe the story. Yet she knew it must be
true, no woman of title and position would thus
acknowledge a stigma on her own life without any
cause for the confession. She stood at the gate still
watching, though there was nothing now to watch,
save the bending trees, and the flowering wild plants
that fringed each side of the old by-road. Priscilla's
voice calling her in a clear, yet lowered tone, startled
her at last she slowly shut the gate and turned in
answer.
"Yes, dear? What is it?"
Priscilla trotted out from under the porch, full of
eager curiosity.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 201
"Has the lady gone?"
"Yes."
"What did she want with ye, dearie?"
"Nothing very much!" and Innocent smiled a
strange, wistful smile "Only just what you
thought! she wished to buy something from Briar
Farm and I told her it was not to be sold!"
CHAPTER XI
THAT night Innocent made an end of all her hesi-
tation. Resolutely she put away every thought that
could deter her from the step she was now resolved
to take. Poor old Priscilla little imagined the un-
derlying cause of the lingering tenderness with which
the girl kissed her "good-night/' looking back with
more than her usual sweetness as she went along the
corridor to her own little room. Once there, she
locked and bolted the door fast, and then set to
work gathering a few little things together and put-
ting them in a large but light-weight satchel, such
as she had often used to carry some of the choicest
apples from the orchard when they were being gath-
ered in. Her first care was for her manuscript, the
long-treasured scribble, kept so secretly and so often
considered with hope and fear, and wonder and
doubting then she took one or two of the more
cherished volumes which had formerly been the prop-
erty of the "Sieur Amadis" and packed them with
it. Choosing only the most necessary garments from
her little store, she soon filled her extemporary
travelling-bag, and then sat down to write a letter
to Robin. It was brief and explicit.
"DEAR ROBIN," it ran "I have left this beloved
home. It is impossible for me to stay. Dad left
me some money in bank-notes in that sealed letter
so I want for nothing. Do not be anxious or un-
happy but marry soon and forget me. I know you
will always be good to Priscilla tell her I am not
202
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 203
ungrateful to her for all her care of me. I love her
dearly. But I am placed in the world unfortunately,
and I must do something that will help me out of the
shame of being a burden on others and an object of
pity or contempt. If you will keep the old books
Dad gave me, and still call them mine, you will be
doing me a great kindness. And will you take care
of Cupid? lie is quite a clever bird and knows his
friends. He will come to you or Priscilla as easily as
he comes to me. Good-bye, you dear, kind boy! I
love you very much, but not as you want me to love
you, and I should only make you miserable if I
stayed here and married you. God bless you !
"INNOCENT."
She put this in an envelope and addressed it,
then making sure that everything was ready, she took
a few sovereigns from the little pile of housekeeping
money which Priscilla always brought to her to count
over every week and compare with the household
expenses.
"I can return these when I change one of Dad's
bank-notes," she said to herself "but I must have
something smaller to pay my way with just now than
a hundred pounds."
Indeed the notes Hugo Jocelyn had left for her
might have given her some little trouble and embar-
rassment, but she did not pause to consider difficul-
ties. When a human creature resolves to dare and
to do, no impediment, real or imaginary, is allowed
to stand long in the way. An impulse pushes the
soul forward, be it ever so reluctantly the impulse
is sometimes from heaven and sometimes from hell
but as long as it is active and peremptory, it is
obeyed blindly and to the full.
This little ignorant and unworldly girl passed the
rest of the night in tidying the beloved room where
204 INNOCENT
she had spent so many happy hours, and setting
everything in order, talking in whispers between
whiles to the ghostly presence of the "Sieur Amadis"
as to a friend who knew her difficult plight and
guessed her intentions.
"You see," she said, softly, "there is no way
out of it. It is not as if I were anybody I am no-
body! I was never wanted in the world at all. I
have no name. I have never been baptised. And
though I know now that I have a mother, I feel that
she is nothing to me. I can hardly believe she is
my mother. She is a lady of fashion with a secret
and / am the secret! I ought to be put away and
buried and forgotten ! that would be safest for her,
and perhaps best for me! But I should like to live
long enough to make her wish she had been true to
my father and had owned me as his child ! Ah, such
dreams! Will they ever come true!"
She paused, looking up by the dim candle-light at
the arms of the "Sieur Amadis" who "Here seekinge
Forgetfulnesse did here fynde Peace" and at the
motto "Mon cceur me soutien."
"Poor 'Sieur Amadis!" she murmured "He
sought f orgetf ulness ! shall I ever do the same?
How strange it will be not to wish to remember!
surely one must be very old, or sad, to find gladness
in forgetting!"
A faint little thrill of dread ran through her slight
frame thoughts began to oppress her and shake
her courage she resolutely put them away and bent
herself to the practical side of action. Re-attiring
herself in the plain black dress and hat which Pris-
cilla had got for her mourning garb, she waited pa-
tiently for the first peep of daylight a daylight
which was little more than darkness and then, tak-
ing her satchel, she crept softly out of her room,
never once looking back. There was nothing to stay
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 205
her progress, for the great mastiff Hero, since Hugo
Jocelyn's death, had taken to such dismal howling
that it had been found necessary to keep him away
from the house in a far-off shed where his melan-
choly plaints could not be heard. Treading with
light, soundless footsteps down the stairs, she reached
the front-door, unbarred and unlocked it without
any noise, and as softly closed it behind her, then
she stood in the open, shivering slightly in the sweet
coldness of the coming dawn, and inhaling the_fra-
grance of awakening unseen flowers. She knew of a
gap in the hedge by means of which she could leave
the garden without opening the big farm-gate which
moved on rather creaking hinges and she took this
way over a couple of rough stepping-stones. Once
out on the old by-road she paused. Briar Farm
looked like a house in a dream there was not enough
daylight yet to show its gables distinctly, and it was
more like the shadowy suggestion of a building than
any actual substance. Yet there was something sol-
emn and impressive in its scarcely defined outline
to the girl's sensitive imagination it was like the
darkened and disappearing vision of her youth and
happiness, a curtain falling, as it were, between the
past and the future like a drop-scene in a play.
"Good-bye, Briar Farm!" she whispered, kissing
her hand to the quaintly peaked roof just dimly per-
ceptible "Good-bye, dear, beloved home! I shall
never forget you! I shall never see anything like
you! Good-bye, peace and safety! good-bye!"
The tears rushed to her eyes, and for the moment
blinded her, then, overcoming this weakness, she
set herself to walk quickly and steadily away. Up
the old by-road, through the darkness of the over-
hanging trees, here and there crossed by pale wan-
dering gleams of fitful light from the nearing dawn,
she moved swiftly, treading with noiseless footsteps
206 INNOCENT
as though she thought the unseen spirits of wood
and field might hear and interrupt her progress
and in a few minutes she found herself upon the
broad highway branching right and left and leading
in either direction to the wider world. Briar Farm
had disappeared behind the trees, it was as though
no such place existed, so deeply was it hidden.
She stopped, considering. She was not sure which
was the way to the nearest railway-station some
eight miles distant. She was prepared to walk it,
but feared to take the wrong road, for she instinc-
tively felt that if she had to endure any unexpected
delay, some one from Briar Farm would be sent to
trace her and find out where she went. While she
thus hesitated, she heard the heavy rumbling of
slow cart-wheels, and waited to see what sort of ve-
hicle might be approaching. It was a large waggon
drawn by two ponderous horses and driven by a man
who, dimly perceived by the light of the lantern
fastened in front of him, appeared to be asleep. In-
nocent hailed him and after one or two efforts suc-
ceeded at last in rousing his attention.
"Which is the way to the railway-station?" she
asked.
The man blinked drowsily at her.
"Railway-station, is it? I be a-goin' there now to
fetch a load o' nitrates. Are ye wantin' to git?"
"Wantin' to git" was a country phrase to
which Innocent was well accustomed. She answered,
gently
"Yes. I should be so glad if you'd give me a lift
I'll pay you for it. I have to catch the first train
to London."
"Lunnon? Quiet, ye rascals!" this to the sturdy
horses who were dragging away at their shafts in
stolid determination to move on "Lunnon's a good
way off! Ever bin there?"
"No."
"Nor I, nayther. Seekin' service?"
"Yes."
"Wai, ye can ride along wi' me, if so be ye likes it
we be goin' main slow, but we'll be there before
first engine. Climb up! that's right! 'Ere's a cor-
ner beside me ye could sit in the waggon if ye liked,
but it's 'ard as nails. 'Ere's a bit of 'oss-cloth for
a cushion."
The girl sprang up as he bade her and was soon
seated.
"Ye're a light 'un an' a little 'un, an' a young 'un,"
he said, with a chuckle "an' what ye're doin' all
alone i' the wake o' the marnin' is more than yer
own mother knows, I bet!"
"I have no mother," she said.
"Eh, eh! That's bad that's bad! Yet for all
that there's bad mothers wot's worse than none. Git
on wi' ye ! " this in a stentorian voice to the horses,
accompanied by a sounding crack of the whip. "Git
on!"
The big strong creatures tugged at the shafts and
obeyed, their hoofs making a noisy clatter in the
silence of the dawn. The daylight was beginning to
declare itself more openly, and away to the east, just
above a line of dark trees, the sky showed pale sug-
gestions of amber and of rose. Innocent sat very
silent; she was almost afraid of the coming light
lest by chance the man beside her should ever have
seen her before and recognise her. His sleep having
been broken, he was disposed to be garrulous.
"Ever bin by train afore?" he asked.
"No."
"No! Eh, that's mighty cur'ous. A'most every-
one goes somewhere by train nowadays there's such
a sight o' cheap 'scursiohs. I know a man wot got
up i' the middle o' night, 'e did, an' more fool 'e!
208 INNOCENT
an' off 'e goes by train down to seaside for the day
Vd never seen the sea before an' it giv' 'im such
a scare as 'e ain't got over it yet. 'E said there was
such a sight o' wobblin' water that 'e thort it 'ud
wobble off altogether an' wash away all the land and
'im with it. Ay, ay! 'e was main scared with 'is
cheap 'scursion ! "
"I've never seen the sea," said Innocent then, in
a low clear tone "but I've read about it and I
think I know what it is like. It is always changing,
it is full of beautiful colours, blue and green, and
grey and violet and it has great waves edged with
white foam! oh yes! the poets write about it, and
I have often seen it in my dreams."
The dawning light in the sky deepened and the
waggoner turned his head to look more closely at
his girl-companion.
"Ye talks mighty strange!" he said "a'most as
if ye'd been eddicated up to it. I ain't been eddi-
cated, an' I've no notions above my betters, but ye
may be right about the sea if ye've read about it,
though the papers is mostly lies, if ye asks me, telling
ye one thing one day an' another to-morrow "
"I don't read the papers" and Innocent smiled
a little as in the widening light ghe began to see the
stolid, stupid, but good-natured face of the man
"I don't understand them. I've read about the sea
in book, books of poetry."
H uttered & sound betwwo a whiatlt and a grunt.
"Books of poetry! An' ye're goin' to ik wnric*
in Lunnon? Take my word for't, my gel, they won't
want any folks there wi' sort o' gammon like that
in their 'eds they're all on the make there, an' they
don't care for nothin' 'cept money an' 'ow to grab it.
I ain't bin there, but I've heerd a good deal."
"You may have heard wrong," said Innocent, gath-
ering more courage as she realised that the -light was
now quite clear enough for him to see her features
distinctly and that it was evident he did not know
her "London is such a large place that there must
be all sorts in it good as well as bad they can't
all be greedy for money. There must be people
who think beautiful things, and do beautiful
work "
"Oh, there's plenty o' work done there" and the
waggoner flicked his long whip against the sturdy
flanks of his labouring horses "I ain't denyin' that.
An' you'll 'ave to work, my gel! you bet! you'll
'ave to wash down steps an' sweep kitchens a good
while afore you gits into the way of it! Why not
take a service in the country?"
"I'm a little tired of the country," she answered
"I'd like a change."
"An' a change ye're likely to git!" he retorted,
somewhat gruffly "Lor' bless yer 'art! There ain't
nothin' like the country! ' All the trees a-greenin'
an' the flowers a-blowin' an' the birds a-singin'!
'Ave ye ever 'erd tell of a place called Briar
Farm?"
She controlled the nervous start of her body, and
replied quietly
"I think I have. A very old place."
"Ah! Old? I believe ye! 'Twas old in the time
o' good Queen Bess an' the same fam'ly 'as 'ad it
these three 'undred years a fam'ly o' the name o'
Jocelyn. Ay, if ye could a' got service wi' Farmer
Jocelyn ye'd a' bin in luck's way! But 'e's dead an'
gone last week more's the pity! an' 'is nephew's
got the place now, forbye 'e ain't a Jocelyn."
She was silent, affecting not to be interested. The
waggoner went on
"That's the sort o' place to seek service in! Safe
an' clean an' 'onest as the sunshine good work an'
good pay a deal better than a place in Lunnon.
210 INNOCENT
An' country air, my gel! country air! nuthin' like
it!"
A sudden blaze of gold lit up the trees the sun
was rising full day was disclosed, and the last filmy
curtains of the night were withdrawn, showing a
heavenly blue sky flecked lightly with wandering
trails of white cloud like swansdown. He pointed
eastward with his long whip.
"Look at that ! " he said "Fine, isn't it ! No roofs
and chimneys just the woods and fields! Nuthin'
like it anywhere!"
Innocent drew a long breath the air was indeed
sweet and keen new life seemed given to the world
with its exhilarating freshness. But she made no
reply to the enthusiastic comments of her companion.
Thoughts were in her brain too deep for speech. Not
here, not here, in this quiet pastoral scene could she
learn the way to wrest the golden circlet of fame
from the hands of the silent gods! it must be in
the turmoil and rush of endeavour the swift pur-
suit of the flying Apollo ! And as the slow waggon
jogged along she felt herself drawn, as it were, by
a magnet on on on! on towards a veiled mys-
tery which waited for her a mystery which she
alone could solve.
Presently they came within sight of several rows
of ugly wooden sheds with galvanised iron roofs and
short black chimneys.
"A'most there now," said the waggoner " 'Ere's
a bit o' Lunnon a'ready! dirt an' muck and mud-
dle ! Where man do make a mess o' things 'e makes
a mess all round! Spoils everything 'e can lay 'is
'ands on!"
The approaches to the railway were certainly not
attractive no railway approaches ever are. Perhaps
they appear more than usually hideous when built
amid a fair green country, where for miles and miles
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 211
one sees nothing but flowering hedgerows and soft
pastures shaded by the graceful foliage of sheltering
trees. Then the shining, slippery iron of the rail-
way running like a knife through the verdant bosom
of the land almost hurts the eyes, and the acces-
sories of station-sheds, coal-trucks, and the like, af-
front the taste like an ill-done foreground in an
otherwise pleasing picture. A slight sense of depres-
sion and foreboding came like a cloud over the mind
of poor little lonely Innocent, as she alighted at the
station at last, and with uplifted wistful eyes ten-
dered a sovereign to the waggoner.
"Please take as much of it as you think right,"
she said "It was very kind of you to let me ride
with you."
The man stared, whistled, and thought. Feeling
in the depth of a capacious pocket he drew out a
handful of silver and counted it over carefully.
" 'Ere y'are!" he said, handing it all over with the
exception of one half-crown "Ye'll want all yer
change in Lunnon an' more. I'm takin' two bob an'
sixpence if ye thinks it too much, say so!"
"Oh no, no!" and Innocent looked distressed
"Perhaps it's too little I hope you are not wrong-
ing yourself?"
The waggoner laughed, kindly enough.
"Don't ye mind me!" he said "I'm all right! If
I 'adn't two kids at 'ome I'd charge ye nothin'
but I'm goin' to get 'em a toy they wants, an' I'll
take the 'arf-crown for the luck of it. Good-day
t'ye! Hope you'll find an easy place!"
She smiled and thanked him, then entered the
station and, finding the ticket-office just open, paid
a third-class fare to London. A sudden thrill of
nervousness came over her. She spoke to the book-
ing-clerk, peering wistfully at him through his little
ticket-aperture.
212 INNOCENT
"I have never been in a train before!" she said,
in a small, anxious voice.
The clerk smiled, and yawned expansively. He
was a young man who considered himself a "gentle-
man," and among his own particular set passed for
being a wit.
"Really!" he drawled "Quite a new experience
for you! A little country mouse, is it?"
Innocent drew back, offended.
"I don't know what you mean," she said, coldly
and moved away.
The young clerk fingered his embryo moustache
dubiously conscious of a blunder in manners. This
girl was a lady not a mere country wench to joke
with. He felt rather uncomfortable and presently
leaving his office, went out on the platform where
she was walking up and down, and slightly lifted his
cap.
"I beg your pardon!" he said, his face reddening
a little "If you are travelling alone you would like
to get into a carriage with other people, wouldn't
you?"
"Oh yes!" she answered, eagerly "If you would
be so kind "
He made no answer, as just then, with a rush and
crash and clatter, and deafening shriek of the engine-
whistle, the train came thundering in. There was
opening and shutting of doors, much banging and
confusion, and before she very well knew where she
was, Innocent found herself in a compartment with
three other persons one benevolent-looking old gen-
tleman with white hair who was seated opposite to
her, and a man and woman, evidently husband and
wife. Another shriek and roar, and the train started
as it began to race along, Innocent closed her eyes
with a sickening sensation of faintness and terror
then, opening them, saw hedges, fields, trees and
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 213
ponds all flying past her like scud in the wind, and
sat watching in stupefied wonderment one little
hand grasping the satchel that held all her worldly
possessions the other hanging limply at her side.
Now and then she looked at her companions the
husband and wife sat opposite each other and spoke
occasionally in monosyllables the old gentleman on
the seat facing herself was reading a paper which
showed its title "The Morning Post." Sometimes
he looked at her over the top of the paper, but for
the most part he appeared absorbed in the printed
page. On, on, on, the train rushed at a pace which
to her seemed maddening and full of danger she
felt sick and giddy would it never stop, she
thought? and a deep sense of relief came over her
when, with a scream from the engine-whistle loud
enough to tear the drum of a sensitive ear, the whole
shaking, rattling concern came to an abrupt stand-
still at a station. Then she mustered up courage
to speak.
"Please, would you tell me " she began, faintly.
The old gentleman laid down his "Morning Post"
and surveyed her encouragingly.
"Yes? What is it?"
"Will it be long before we get to London?"
"About three hours."
"Three hours!"
Shi gave a deep and weary sigh. Three hours!
Hardly till then had she realised how far she was
from Briar Farm or how entirely she had cut her-
s*lf off from all the familiar surroundings of her
childhood's home, her girlhood's life. She leaned
back in her seat, and one or two tears escaped from
under her drooping eyelids and trickled slowly down
her cheeks. The train started off again, rushing at
what she thought an awful speed, she imagined her-
self as being torn away from the peaceful past and
214 INNOCENT
hurled into a stormy future. Yet it was her own
doing whatever chanced to her now she would have
no one but herself to blame. The events of the past
few days had crushed and beaten her so with blows,
the old adage "Misfortunes never come singly" had
been fulfilled for her with cruel and unlooked-for
plenitude. There is a turning-point in every human
life or rather several turning-points and at each
one are gathered certain threads of destiny which
may either be involved in a tangle or woven dis-
tinctly as a clue but which in any case lead to
change in the formerly accepted order of things. We
may thank the gods that this is so otherwise in the
jog-trot of a carefully treasured conservatism and
sameness of daily existence we should become the
easy prey of adventurers, who, discovering our de-
sire for the changelessness of a convenient and com-
fortable routine, would mulct us of all individuality.
Our very servants would become our masters, and
would take advantage of our easy-going ways to
domineer over us, as in the case of "lone ladies" who
are often half afraid to claim obedience from the do-
mestics they keep and pay. Ignorant of the ways
of the world and full of such dreams as the world
considers madness, Innocent had acted on a power-
ful inward impetus which pushed her spirit towards
liberty and independence but of any difficulties or
dangers she might have to encounter she never
thought. She had the blind confidence of a child
that runs along heedless of falling, being instinctively
sure that some hand will be stretched out to save it
should it run into positive danger.
Mastering the weakness of tears, she furtively
dried her eyes and endeavoured not to think at all
not to dwell on the memory of her "Dad" whom
she had loved so tenderly, and all the sweet sur-
roundings of Briar Farm which already seemed so
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 215
far away. Robin would be sorry she had gone
indeed he would be very miserable for a time she
was certain of that! and Priscilla! yes, Priscilla had
loved her as her own child, here her thoughts be-
gan running riot again, and she moved impatiently.
Just then the old gentleman with the "Morning
Post" folded it neatly and, bending forward, offered
it to her.
"Would you like to see the paper?" he asked,
politely.
The warm colour flushed her cheeks she accepted
it shyly.
"Thank you very much!" she murmured and,
gratefully shielding her tearful eyes behind the con-
venient news-sheet, she began glancing up and
down the front page with all its numerous announce-
ments, from the "Agony" column down to the
latest new concert-singers and sailings of steamers.
Suddenly her attention was caught by the follow-
ing advertisement
"A Lady of good connection and position will be
glad to take another lady as Paying Guest in her
charming house in Kensington. Would suit anyone
studying art or for a scholarship. Liberal table and
refined surroundings. Please communicate with
'Lavinia' at " Here followed an address.
Over and over again Innocent read this with a
sort of fascination. Finally, taking from her pocket
a little note-book and pencil, she copied it carefully.
"I might go there," she thought "If she is a poor
lady wanting money, she might be glad to have me
as a 'paying guest.' Anyhow, it will do no harm
to try. I must find some place to rest in, if only for
a night."
Here she became aware that the old gentleman
who had lent her the paper was eyeing her curiously
yet kindly. She met his glance with a mixture of
216 INNOCENT
frankness and timidity which gave her expression a
wonderful charm. He ventured to speak as he might
have spoken to a little child.
"Are you going to London for the first tune?"
he asked.
"Yes, sir."
He smiled. He had a pleasant smile, distinctly
humorous and good-natured.
"It's a great adventure!" he said "Especially for
a little girl, all alone."
She coloured.
"I'm not a little girl," she answered, with quaint
dignity "I'm eighteen."
"Really!" and the old gentleman looked more
humorous than ever "Oh well! of course you are
quite old. But, you see, I am seventy, so to me you
seem a little girl. I suppose your friends will meet
you in London?"
She hesitated then answered, simply
"No. I have no friends. I am going to earn my
living."
The old gentleman whistled. It was a short, low
whistle at first, but it developed into a bar of "Sally
in our Alley." Then he looked round the other
people in the compartment, the husband and wife,
were asleep.
"Poor child!" he then said, very gently "I'm
afraid that will be hard work for you. You don't
look very strong."
"Oh, but I am!" she replied, eagerly "I can do
anything in housework or dairy-farming I've been
brought up to be useful "
"That's more than a great many girls can say!"
he remarked, smiling "Well, well! I hope you may
succeed! I also was brought up to be useful but
I'm not sure that I have ever been of any use!"
She looked at him with quick interest.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 217
"Are you a clever man?" she asked.
The simplicity of the question amused him, and he
laughed.
"A few people have sometimes called me so," he
answered "but my 'cleverness/ or whatever it may
be, is not of the successful order. And I'm getting
old now, so that most of my activity is past. I have
written a few books "
"Books!" she clasped her hands nervously, and
her eyes grew brilliant "Oh! If you can write
books you must always be happy!"
"Do you think so?" And he bent his brows and
scrutinised her more intently. "What do you know
about it? Are you fond of reading?"
A deep blush suffused her fair skin.
"Yes but I have only read very old books for
the most part," she said "In the farm-house where
I was brought up there were a great many manu-
scripts on vellum, and curious things I read those
and some books in old French "
"Books in old French!" he echoed, wonderingly.
"And you can read them? You are quite a French
scholar, then?"
"Oh no, indeed!" she protested "I have only
taught myself a little. Of course it was difficult at
first, but I soon managed it, just as I learned how
to read old English I mean the English of Queen
Elizabeth's time. I loved it all so much that it was
a pleasure to puzzle it out. We had a few modern
books but I never cared for them."
He studied her face with increasing interest.
"And you are going to earn your own living in
London!" he said "Have you thought of a way
to begin? In old French, or old English?"
She glanced at him quickly and saw that he was
smiling kindly.
"Yes," she answered, gently "I have thought
218 INNOCENT
of a way to begin! Will you tell me of some book
you have written so that I may read it?"
He shook his head.
"Not I !" he declared "I could not stand the criti-
cism of a young lady who might compare me with
the writers of the Elizabethan period Shakespeare,
for instance "
"Ah no!" she said "No one can ever be com-
pared with Shakespeare that is impossible!"
He was silent, and as she resumed her reading of
the "Morning Post" he had lent her, he leaned back
in his seat and left her to herself. But he was keenly
interested, this young, small creature with her deli-
cate, intelligent face and wistful blue-grey eyes was
a new experience for him. He was a well-seasoned
journalist and man of letters, clever in his own
line and not without touches of originality in his
work but hardly brilliant or forceful enough to
command the attention of the public to a large or
successful issue. He was, however, the right hand
and chief power on the staff of one of the most in-
fluential of daily newspapers, whose proprietor would
no more have thought of managing things without
him than of going without a dinner, and from this
post, which he had held for twenty years, he derived
a sufficiently comfortable income. In his profession
he had seen all classes of humanity the wise and the
ignorant, the conceited and the timid, men who
considered themselves new Shakespeares in embryo,
women in whom the unbounded vanity of a little
surface cleverness was sufficient to place them be-
yond the pale of common respect, but he had never
till now met a little country girl making her first
journey to London who admitted reading "old
French" and Elizabethan English as unconcernedly
as she might have spoken of gathering apples or
churning cream. He determined not to lose sight of
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 219
her, and to improve the acquaintance if he got the
chance. He heard her give a sudden sharp sigh as
she read the "Morning Post," she had turned to
the middle of the newspaper where the events of
the day were chronicled, and where a column of fash-
ionable intelligence announced the ephemeral doings
of the so-called "great" of the world. Here one para-
graph had caught and riveted her attention it ran
thus "Lord and Lady Blythe have left town for
Glen-Alpin, Inverness-shire, where they will enter-
tain a large house-party to meet the Prime Min-
ister."
Her mother! It was difficult to believe that but
a few hours ago this very Lady Blythe had offered
to "adopt" her! "adopt" her own child and act a
lie in the face of all the "society" she frequented,
yet, strange and fantastic as it seemed, it was true!
Possibly she Innocent had she chosen, could have
been taken to "Glen-Alpin, Inverness-shire!" she
too might have met the Prime Minister ! She almost
laughed at the thought of it! the paper shook in
her hand. Her "mother"! Just then the old gen-
tleman bent forward again and spoke to her.
"We are very near London now," he said "Can
I help you at the station to get your luggage? You
might find it confusing at first "
"Oh, thank you!" she murmured "But I have
no luggage only this" and she pointed to the
satchel beside her "I shall get on very well."
Here she folded up the "Morning Post" and re-
turned it to him with a pretty air of courtesy. As
he accepted it he smiled.
"You are a very independent little lady!" he
said "But just in case you ever do want to read
a book of mine,: I am going to give you my name
and address." Here he took a card from his waist-
coat pocket and gave it to her. "That will always
220 INNOCENT
find me," he continued "Don't be afraid to write
and ask me anything about London you may wish
to know. It's a very large city a cruel one!" and
he looked at her with compassionate kindness
"You mustn't lose yourself in it!"
She read the name on the card "John Harring-
ton" and the address was the office of a famous
daily journal. Looking up, she gave him a grateful
little smile.
"You are very kind!" she said "And I will not
forget you. I don't think I shall lose myself I'll
try not to be so stupid ! Yes when I have read one
of your books I will write to you!"
"Do!" and there was almost a note of eager-
ness in his voice "I should like to know what you
think" here a loud and persistent scream from the
engine-whistle drowned all possibility of speech as
the train rushed past a bewildering wilderness of
houses packed close together under bristling black
chimneys then, as the deafening din ceased, he
added, quietly, "Here is London."
She looked out of the window, the sun was shin-
ing, but through a dull brown mist, and nothing but
bricks and mortar, building upon building, met her
view. After the sweet freshness of the country she
had left behind, the scene was appallingly hideous,
and her heart sank with a sense of fear and fore-
boding. Another few minutes and the train stopped.
"This is Paddington," said John Harrington ; then,
noting her troubled expression "Let me get a taxi
for you and tell the man where to drive."
She submitted in a kind of stunned bewilderment.
The address she had found in the "Morning Post"
was her rescue she could go there, she thought,
rapidly, even if she had to come away again. Al-
most before she could realise what had happened in
all the noise and bustling to and fro, she found her-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 221
self in a taxi-cab, and her kind fellow-traveller stand-
ing beside it, raising his hat to her courteously in
farewell. She gave him the address of the house in
Kensington which she had copied from the adver-
tisement she had seen in the "Morning Post," and
he repeated it to the taxi-driver with a sense of relief
and pleasure. It was what is called "a respectable
address" and he was glad the child knew where she
was going. In another moment the taxi was off, a
parting smile brightened the wistful expression of
her young face, and she waved her little hand to
him. And then she was whirled away among the
seething crowd of vehicles and lost to sight. Old
John Harrington stood for a moment on the railway-
platform, lost in thought.
"A sweet little soul!" he mused "I wonder what
will become of her! I must see her again some day.
She reminds me of let me see! who does she re-
mind me of? By Jove, I have it! Pierce Armitage!
haven't seen him for twenty years at least and
this girl's face has a look of his just the same eyes
and intense expression. Poor old Armitage! he
promised to be a great artist once, but he's gone to
the dogs by this time, I suppose. Curious, curious
that I should remember him just now!"
And he went his way, thinking and wondering,
while Innocent went hers, without any thought at
all, in a blind and simple faith that God would take
care of her.
CHAPTER XII
To be whirled along through the crowded streets
of London in a taxi-cab for the first time in one's
life must needs be a somewhat disconcerting, even
alarming experience, and Innocent was the poor lit-
tle prey of so many nervous fears during her journey
to Kensington in this fashion, that she could think
of nothing and realise nothing except that at any
moment it seemed likely she would be killed. With
wide-open, terrified eyes, she watched the huge mo-
tor-omnibuses almost bearing down upon the vehi-
cle in which she sat, and shivered at the narrow mar-
gin of space the driver seemed to allow for any sort
of escape from instant collision and utter disaster.
She only began to breathe naturally again when,
turning away out of the greater press of traffic, the
cab began to run at a smoother and less noisy pace,
till presently, in less time than she could have im-
agined possible, it drew up at a modestly retreating
little door under an arched porch in a quiet little
square, where there were some brave and pretty
trees doing their best to be green, despite London
soot and smoke. Innocent stepped out, and seeing
a bell-handle pulled it timidly. The summons was
answered by a very neat maid-servant, who looked
at her in primly polite enquiry.
"Is Mrs. or Miss 'Lavinia' at home?" she mur-
mured. "I saw her advertisement in the 'Morning
Post/ "
The servant's face changed from primness to pro-
pitiation.
222
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 223
"Oh yes, miss! Please step in! I'll tell Miss
Leigh."'
"Thank you. I'll pay the driver."
She thereupon paid for the cab and dismissed it,
and then followed the maid into a very small but
prettily arranged hall, and from thence into a charm-
ing little drawing-room, with French windows set
open, showing a tiny garden beyond a little green
lawn, smooth as velvet, and a few miniature flower-
beds gay with well-kept blossoms.
"Would you please take a seat, miss?" and the
maid placed a chair. "Miss Leigh is upstairs, but
she'll be down directly."
She left the room, closing the door softly behind
her.
Innocent sat still, satchel in hand, looking wist-
fully about her. The room appealed to her taste in
its extreme simplicity and it instinctively suggested
to her mind resigned poverty making the best of
itself. There were one or two old miniatures on lit-
tle velvet stands set on the mantelpiece these were
beautiful, and of value; some engravings of famous
pictures adorned the walls, all well chosen; the quaint
china bowl on the centre table was full of roses care-
fully arranged and there was a very ancient harpsi-
chord in one corner which apparently served only as
a stand for the portrait of a man's strikingly hand-
some face, near which was placed a vase containing
a stem of Madonna lilies. Innocent found herself
looking at this portrait now and again there was
something familiar in its expression which had a curi-
ous fascination for her. But her thoughts revolved
chiefly round a difficulty which had just presented
itself she had no real name. What name could she
take to be known by for the moment? She woulcj
not call herself "Jocelyn" she felt she had no right
to do so. "Ena" might pass muster for an abbrevia-
224 INNOCENT
tion of "Innocent" she decided to make use of that
as a Christian name but a surname that would be
appropriately fitted to her ultimate intentions she
could not at once select. Then she suddenly thought
of the man who had been her father and had brought
her as a helpless babe to Briar Farm. Pierce Armi-
tage was his name and he was dead. Surely she
might call herself Armitage? While she was still
puzzling her mind over the question the door opened
and a little old lady entered a soft-eyed, pale,
pretty old lady, as dainty and delicate as the fairy-
godmother of a child's dream, with white hair
bunched on either side of her face, and a wistful,
rather plaintive expression of mingled hope and en-
quiry.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," she began then
paused in a kind of embarrassment. The two looked
at each other. Innocent spoke, a little shyly:
"I saw your advertisement in the 'Morning Post/ '
she said, "and I thought perhaps I thought that I
might come to you as a paying guest. I have to live
in London, and I shall be very busy studying all day,
so I should not give you much trouble."
"Pray do not mention it!" said the old lady, with
a quaint air of old-fashioned courtesy. "Trouble
would not be considered! But you are a much
younger person than I expected or wished to accom-
modate."
"You said in the advertisement that it would be
suitable for a person studying art, or for a scholar-
ship," put in Innocent, quickly. "And I am studying
for literature."
"Are you indeed?" and the old lady waved a little
hand in courteous deprecation of all unnecessary ex-
planation a hand which Innocent noticed had a
delicate lace mitten on it and one or two sparkling
rings. "Well, let us sit down together and talk it
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 225
over. I have two spare rooms a bedroom and a
sitting-room they are small but very comfortable,
and for these I have been told I should ask three
guineas a week, including board. I feel it a little
difficult" and the old lady heaved a sigh "I have
never done this kind of thing before I don't know
what my poor father, Major Leigh, would have said
he was a very proud man very proud !"
While she thus talked, Innocent had been making
a rapid calculation in her own mind. Three guineas
a week! It was more than she had meant to pay,
but she was instinctively wise enough to realise the
advantage of safety and shelter in this charming
little home of one who was evidently a lady, gentle,
kindly, and well-mannered. She had plenty of money
to go on with and in the future she hoped to make
more. So she spoke out bravely.
"I will pay the three guineas a week gladly," she
said. "May I see the rooms?"
The old lady meanwhile had been studying her
with great intentness, and now asked abruptly
"Are you an English girl?"
Innocent flushed a sudden rosy red.
"Yes. I was brought up in the country, but all
my people are dead now. I have no friends, but I
have a little money left to me and for the rest I
must earn my own living."
"Well, my dear, that won't hurt you!" and an
encouraging smile brightened Miss Leigh's pleasantly
wrinkled face. "You shall see the rooms. But you
have not told me your name yet."
Again Innocent blushed.
"My name is Armitage," she said, in a low, hesi-
tating tone "Ena Armitage."
"Armitage!" Miss Leigh repeated the name with
a kind of wondering accents "Armitage? Are you
any relative of the painter, Pierce Armitage?"
226 INNOCENT
The girl's heart beat quickly for a moment the
little drawing-room seemed to whirl round her then
she collected her forces with a strong effort and an-
swered "No!"
The old lady's wistful blue eyes, dimmed with age,
yet retaining a beautiful tenderness of expression,
rested upon her anxiously.
"You are quite sure?"
Repressing the feeling that prompted her to cry
out "He was my father!" she replied
"I am quite sure!"
Lavinia Leigh raised her little mittened hand
and pointed to the portrait standing on the harpsi-
chord :
"That was Pierce Armitage!" she said. "He was
a dear friend of mine" her voice trembled a little
"and I should have been glad if you had been in
any way connected with him."
As she spoke Innocent turned and looked steadily
at the portrait, and it seemed to her excited fancy
that its eyes gave her glance for glance. She could
hardly breathe the threatening tears half choked
her. What strange fate was it, she thought, that had
led her to a house where she looked upon her own
father's likeness for the first time!
"He was a very fine man," continued Miss Leigh
in the same half-tremulous voice "very gifted
very clever! He would have been a great artist, I
think "
"Is he dead?" the girl asked, quietly.
"Yes I I think so he died abroad so they say,
but I have never quite believed it I don't know
why ! Come, let me show you the rooms. I am glad
your name is Armitage."
She led the way, walking slowly, Innocent fol-
lowed like one in a dream. They ascended a small
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 227
staircase, softly carpeted, to a square landing, and
here Miss Leigh opened a door.
"This is the sitting-room," she said. "You see, it
has a nice bow-window with a view of the garden.
The bedroom is just beyond it both lead into one
another."
Innocent looked in and could not resist giving a
little exclamation of pleasure. Everything was so
clean and dainty and well kept it seemed to her a
perfect haven of rest and shelter. She turned to
Miss Leigh in eager impulsiveness.
"Oh, please let me stay!" she said. "Now, at
once! I have only just arrived in London and this
is the first place I have seen. It seems so so fortu-
nate that you should have had a friend named Armi-
tage! Perhaps perhaps I may be a friend too!"
A curious tremor seemed to pass over the old lady
as though she shivered in a cold wind. She laid one
hand gently on the girl's arm.
"You may, indeed!" she said. "One never can
tell what may happen in this strange world! But
we have to be practical and I am very poor and
pressed for money. I do not know you and of
course I should expect references from some respect-
able person who can tell me who you are and all
about you."
Innocent grew pale. She gave a little expressive
gesture of utter hopelessness.
"I cannot give you any references," she said "I
am quite alone in the world my people are dead
you see I am in mourning. The last friend I had
died a little while ago and left me four hundred
pounds in bank-notes. I have them here" and she
touched her breast "and if you like I will give you
one of them in advance payment for the rooms and
board at once."
The old lady heaved a quick sharp sigh. One
228 INNOCENT
hundred pounds! It would relieve her of a weight
of pressing difficulty and yet ! She paused,
considering.
"No, my child!" she said, quietly. "I would not
on any account take so much money from you.
If you wish to stay, and if I must omit references
and take you on trust which I am quite willing to
do!" and she smiled, gravely "I will accept two
months' rent in advance if you think you can spare
this can you?"
"Yes oh, yes!" the girl exclaimed, impulsively.
"If only I may stay now!"
"You may certainly stay now," and Miss Leigh
rang a bell to summon the neat maid-servant. "Ra-
chel, the rooms are let to this young lady, Miss Armi-
tage. Will you prepare the bedroom and help her
unpack her things?" Then, turning round to Inno-
cent, she said kindly, "You will of course take
your meals with me at my table I keep very regu-
lar hours, and if for any cause you have to be ab-
sent, I should wish to know beforehand."
Innocent said nothing; her eyes were full of
tears, but she took the old lady's little hand and
kissed it. They went down together again to the
drawing-room, Innocent just pausing to tell the
maid Rachel that she would prefer to unpack and
arrange the contents of her satchel all her luggage,
herself; and in a very few minutes the whole
business was settled. Eager to prove her good faith
to the gentle lady who had so readily trusted her,
she drew from her bosom the envelope containing
the bank-notes left to her by Hugo Jocelyn, and,
unfolding all four, she spread them out on the ta-
ble.
"You see," she said, "this is my little fortune!
Please change one of them and take the two months'
rent and anything more you want please do!"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 229
A faint colour flushed Miss Leigh's pale cheeks.
"No, my dear, no!" she answered. "You must
not tempt me ! I will take exactly the two months'
rent and no more; but I think you ought not to
carry this money about with you you should put
it in a bank. We'll talk of this afterwards but go
and lock it up somewhere now there's a little desk
in your room you could use but a bank would be
safest. After dinner this evening I'll tell you what
I think you ought to do you are so very young!"
and she smiled "such a young little thing! I
shall have to look after you and play chaperone!"
Innocent looked up with a sweet confidence in her
eyes.
"That will be kind of you!" she said, and leaving
the one bank-note of a hundred pounds on the table,
she folded up the other three in their original en-
velope and returned them to their secret place of
safety. "In a little while I will tell you a great deal
about myself and I do hope I shall please you ! I
will not give any trouble, and I'll try to be useful in
the house if you'll let me. I can cook and sew and
do all sorts of things!"
"Can you, indeed!" and Miss Leigh laughed
good-naturedly. "And what about studying for
literature?"
"Ah! that of course comes first!" she said. "But
I shall do all my writing in the mornings in the
afternoons I can help you as much as you like."
"My dear, your time must be your own," said Miss
Leigh, decisively. "You have paid for your accom-
modation, and you must have perfect liberty to do
as you like, as long as you keep to my regular hours
for meals and bed-time. I think we shall get on
well together, and I hope we shall be good friends!"
As she spoke she bent forward and on a sudden
impulse drew the girl to her and kissed her. Poor
230 INNOCENT
lonely Innocent thrilled through all her being to the
touch of instinctive tenderness, and her heart beat
quickly as she saw the portrait on the harpsichord
her father's pictured face apparently looking at her
with a smile.
"Oh, you are very good to me!" she murmured,
with a little sob in her breath, as she returned the
gentle old lady's kiss. "I feel as if I had known
you for years! Did you know him" and she
pointed to the portrait "very long?"
Miss Leigh's eyes grew bright and tender.
"Yes!" she answered. "We were boy and girl
together and once once we were very fond of each
other. Perhaps I will tell you the story some day!
Now go up to your rooms and arrange everything as
you like, and rest a little. Would you like some tea?
Anything to eat?"
Poor Innocent, who had left Briar Farm at dawn
without any thought of food, and had travelled to
London almost unconscious of either hunger or fa-
tigue, was beginning to feel the lack of nourishment,
and she gratefully accepted the suggestion.
"I lunch at two o'clock," continued Miss Leigh.
"But it's only a little past twelve now, and if you
have come a long way from the country you must
be tired. I'll send Rachel up to you with some tea."
She went to give the order, and Innocent, left to
herself for a moment, moved softly up to her father's
picture and gazed upon it with all her soul in her
eyes. It was a wonderful face a face expressive of
the highest thought and intelligence the face of a
thinker or a poet, though the finely moulded mouth
and chin had nothing of the weakness which some-
times marks a mere dreamer of dreams. Timidly
glancing about her to make sure she was not ob-
served, she kissed the portrait, the cold glass which
covered it meeting her warm caressing lips with a
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 231
repelling chill. He was dead this father whom she
could never claim! dead as Hugo Jocelyn, who had
taken that father's place in her life. She might
love the ghost of him if her fancy led her that way,
as she loved the ghost of the "Sieur Amadis" but
there was nothing else to love! She was alone in
the world, with neither father nor "knight of old"
to protect or defend her, and on herself alone de-
pended her future. She turned away and left the
room, looking a fragile, sad, unobtrusive little crea-
ture, with nothing about her to suggest either beauty
or power. Yet the mind in that delicate body had
a strength of which she was unconscious, and she
was already bending it instinctively and intellec-
tually like a bow ready for the first shot with an
arrow which was destined to go straight to its
mark.
Meanwhile on Briar Farm there had fallen a cloud
of utter desolation. The day was fair and brilliant
with summer sunshine, the birds sang, the roses
bloomed, the doves flew to and fro on the gabled
roof, and Innocent's pet "Cupid" waited in vain on
the corner of her window-sill for the usual summons
that called it to her hand, but a strange darkness
and silence like a whelming wave submerged the
very light from the eyes of those who suddenly
found themselves deprived of a beloved presence a
personality unobtrusively sweet, which had be-
stowed on the old house a charm and grace far
greater than had been fully recognised. The "base-
born" Innocent, nameless, and unbaptised, and there-
fore shadowed by the stupid scandal of common-
place convention, had given the "home" its home-
like quality her pretty idealistic fancies about the
old sixteenth-century knight "Sieur Amadis" had
invested the place with a touch of romance and
232 INNOCENT
poetry which it would hardly have possessed with-
out her her gentle ways, her care of the flowers
and the animals, and the never-wearying delight
she had taken in the household affairs all her part
in the daily life of the farm had been as necessary
to happiness as the mastership of Hugo Jocelyn
himself and without her nothing seemed the same.
Poor Priscilla went about her work, crying silently,
and Robin Clifford paced restlessly up and down
the smooth grass in front of the old house with In-
nocent's farewell letter in his hand, reading it again
and again. He had returned early from the market
town where he had stayed the night, eager to ex-
plain to her all the details of the business he had
gone through with the lawyer to whom his Uncle
Hugo had entrusted his affairs, and to tell her how
admirably everything had been arranged for the
prosperous continuance of Briar Farm on the old
traditional methods of labour by which it had always
been worked to advantage. Hugo Jocelyn had in-
deed shown plenty of sound wisdom and foresight
in all his plans save one and that one was his
fixed idea of Innocent's marriage with his nephew.
It had evidently never occurred to him that a girl
could have a will of her own in such a momentous
affair much less that she could or would be so
unwise as to refuse a good husband and a settled
home when both were at hand for her acceptance.
Robin himself, despite her rejection of him, had still
hoped and believed that when the first shock of his
uncle's death had lessened, he might by patience and
unwearying tenderness move her heart to softer
yielding, and he had meant to plead his cause with
her for the sake of the famous old house itself, so
that she might become its mistress and help him
to prove a worthy descendant of its long line of
owners. But now! All hope was at an end she
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 233
had taken the law into her own hands and gone
no one knew whither. Priscilla was the last who
had seen her Priscilla could only explain, with
many tears, that when she had gone to call her to
breakfast she had found her room vacant, her bed
unslept in, and the letter for Robin on the table
and that letter disclosed little or nothing of her
intentions.
"Oh, the poor child!" Priscilla said, sobbingly.
"All alone in a hard world, with her strange little
fancies, and no one to take care of her! Oh, Mr.
Robin, whatever are we to do!"
"Nothing!" and Robin's handsome face was pale
and set. "We can only wait to hear from her she
will not keep us long in anxiety she has too much
heart for that. After all, it is my fault, Priscilla!
I tried to persuade her to marry me against her
will I should have let her alone."
Sudden boyish te^rs sprang to his eyes he dashed
them away in self-contempt.
"I'm a regular coward, you see," he said. "I could
cry like a baby not for myself so much, but to
think of her running away from Briar Farm out into
the wide world all alone! Little Innocent! She
was safe here and if she had wished it, / would have
gone away I would have made her the owner of
the farm, and left her in peace to enjoy it and to
marry any other man she fancied. But she wouldn't
listen to any plan for her own happiness since she
knew she was not my uncle's daughter that is what
has changed her! I wish she had never known!"
"Ay, so do I!" agreed Priscilla, dolefully. "But
she's got the fancifullest notions ! All about that old
stone knight in the garden an' what wi' the things
he's left carved all over the wall of the room where
she read them queer old books, she's fair 'mazed with
ideas that don't belong to the ways o' the world at
234 INNOCENT
all. I can't think what'll become o' the child. Won't
there be any means of findin' out where she's gone?"
"I'm afraid not!" answered Robin, sadly. "We
muse trust to her remembrance of us, Priscilla, and
her thoughts of the old home where she was loved
and cared for." His voice shook. "It will be a dreary
place without her ! We shall miss her every minute,
every hour of the day! I cannot fancy what the
garden will look like without her little white figure
flitting over the grass, and her sweet fair face smiling
among the roses! Hang it all, Priscilla, if it were
not for the last wishes of my Uncle Hugo I'd throw
the whole thing up and go abroad!"
"Don't do that, Mister Robin!" and Priscilla laid
her rough work-worn hand on his arm "Don't do
it! It's turning your back on duty to give up the
work entrusted to you by a dead man. You know
it is! An' the child may come back any day! I
shouldn't wonder if she got frightened at being alone
and ran home again to-morrow ! Think of it, Mister
Robin! Suppose she came an' you weren't here?
Why, you'd never forgive yourself! I can't think
she's gone far or that she'll stay away long. Her
heart's in Briar Farm all the while I'd swear to
that! Why, only yesterday when a fine lady came
to see if she couldn't buy something out o' the house,
you should just a' seen her toss her pretty little
head when she told me how she'd said it wasn't to
be sold."
"Lady? What lady?" and Robin looked, as he
felt, bewildered by Priscilla's vague statement. "Did
someone come here to see the house?"
"Not exactly I don't know what it was all
about," replied Priscilla. "But quite a grand lady
called an' gave me her card. I saw the name on it
'Lady Maude Blythe' and she asked to see 'Miss
Jocelyn' on business. I asked if it was anything I
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 235
could do, and she said no. So I called the child in
from the garden, and she and the lady had quite a
long talk together in the best parlour. Then when
the lady went away, Innocent told me that she had
wished to buy something from Briar Farm but that
it was not to be sold."
Robin listened attentively. "Curious!" he mur-
mured "very curious ! What was the lady's name?"
"Lady Maude Blythe," repeated Priscilla, slowly.
He took out a note-book and pencil, and wrote it
down.
"You don't think she came to engage Innocent
for some service?" he asked. "Or that Innocent
herself had perhaps written to an agency asking for
a place, and that this lady had come to see her in
consequence?"
Such an idea had never occurred to Priscilla's
mind, but now it was suggested to her it seemed
more than likely.
"It might be so," she answered, slowly. "But I
can't bear to think the child was playin' a part an'
tellin' me things that weren't true just to get away
from us. No ! Mister Robin ! I don't believe that
lady had anything to do with her going."
"Well, I shall keep the name by me," he said.
"And I shall find out where the lady lives, who she
is and all about her. For if I don't hear from Inno-
cent, if she doesn't write to us, I'll search the whole
world and never rest till I find her!"
Priscilla looked at him, pityingly, tears springing
again to her eyes.
"Aye, you've lost the love o' your heart, my lad!
I know that well enough!" she said. "An' it's
mighty hard on you ! But you must be a man an'
turn to work as though nowt had happened. There's
the farm "
"Yes, there's the farm," he repeated, absently.
236 INNOCENT
"But what do I care for the farm without her!
Priscilla, you will stay with me?"
"Stay with you? Surely I will, Mister Robin!
Where should an old woman like me go to at this
time o' day!" and Priscilla took his hand and clasped
it affectionately. "Don't you fear! My place is in
Briar Farm till the Lord makes an end of me! And
if the child comes back at any hour of the day or
night, she'll find old Priscilla ready to welcome her,
ready an' glad an' thankful to see her pretty face
again."
Here, unable to control her sobs, she turned away
and made a hasty retreat into the kitchen.
He did not follow her, but acting on the sudden
impulse of his mind he entered the house and went
up to Innocent's deserted room. He opened the door
hesitatingly, the little study, in its severe simplicity
and neatness, looked desolate like an empty shrine
from which the worshipped figure had been taken.
He trod softly across the floor, hushing his footsteps,
as though some one slept whom he feared to wake,
and his eyes wandered from one familiar object to
another till they rested on the shelves where the old
vellum-bound books, which Innocent had loved and
studied so much, were ranged in orderly rows. Tak-
ing one or two of them out he glanced at their title-
pages; he knew that most of them were rare and
curious, though his Oxford training had not im-
pressed him with as great a love of things literary as
it might or should have done. But he realised that
these strange black-letter and manuscript volumes
were of unique value, and that their contents, so
difficult to decipher, were responsible for the forma-
tion of Innocent's guileless and romantic spirit, col-
ouring her outlook on life with a glamour of rain-
bow brilliancy which, though beautiful, was unreal.
One quaint tittle book he opened had for its title
"Ye Whole Art of Love, Setting Forth ye Noble
Manner of Noble Knights who woulde serve their
Ladies Faithfullie in Death as in Lyfe" this bore
the date of 1590. He sighed as he put it back in its
place.
"Ah, well," he said, half aloud, "these books are
hers, and I'll keep them for her but I believe
they've done her a lot of mischief, and I don't love
them ! They've made her see the world as it is not
and life as it never will be! And she has got
strange fancies into her head fancies which she
will run after like a child chasing pretty butterflies
and when the butterflies are caught, they die,
much to the child's surprise and sorrow! My poor
little Innocent! She has gone out alone into the
world, and the world will break her heart! Oh
dearest little love, come back to me!"
He sat down in her vacant chair and covered his
face with his hands, giving himself up to the relief
of unwitnessed tears. Above his head shone the
worn glitter of the old armoured device of the "Sieur
Amadis" with its motto -"Mon cceur me soutien"
and only a psychist could have thought or im-
agined it possible that the spirit of the old French
knight of Tudor times might still be working through
clouds of circumstance and weaving the web of the
future from the torn threads of the past. And when
Robin had regained his self-possession and had left
the room, there was yet a Presence in its very empti-
ness, the silent assertion of an influence which if
it had been given voice and speech might have said
"Do what you consider is your own will and in-
tention, but 7 am still your Master! and all your
thoughts and wishes are but the reflex of my de-
sire!"
It was soon known in the village that Innocent had
left Briar Farm "run away," the gossips said, eager
238 INNOCENT
to learn more. But they could get no information
out of Robin Clifford or Priscilla Friday, and the
labourers on the farm knew nothing. The farm
work was going on as usual that was all they cared
about. Mr. Clifford was very silent Miss Friday
very busy. However, all anxiety and suspense came
to an end very speedily so far as Innocent's safety
was concerned, for in a few days letters arrived from
her both for Robin and Priscilla kind, sweetly-
expressed letters full of the tenderest affection.
"Do not be at all sorry or worried about me, dear
good Priscilla!" she wrote. "I know I am doing
right to be away from Briar Farm for a time and I
am quite well and happy. I have been very fortu-
nate in finding rooms with a lady who is very kind
to me, and as soon as I feel I can do so I will let you
know my address. But I don't want anyone from
home to come and see me not yet! not for a very-
long tune! It would only make me sad and it
would make you sad too ! But be quite sure it will
not be long before you see me again."
Her letter to Robin was longer and full of re-
strained feeling:
"I know you are very unhappy, you kind, loving
boy," it ran. "You have lost me altogether yes,
that is true but do not mind, it is better so, and
you will love some other girl much more than me
some day. I should have been a mistake in your life
had I stayed with you. You will see me again
and you will then understand why I left Briar Farm.
I could not wrong the memory of the Sieur Amadis,
and if I married you I should be doing a wicked
thing to bring myself, who am base-born, into his
lineage. Surely you do understand how I feel? I am
quite safe in a good home, with a lady who takes
care of me and as soon as I can I will let you know
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 239
exactly where I am. then if you ever come to Lon-
don I will see you. But your work is on Briar Farm
that dear and beloved home ! and you will keep up
its old tradition and make everybody happy around
you. Will you not? Yes ! I am sure you will ! You
must, if ever you loved me. "INNOCENT/'
With this letter his last hope died within him.
She would never be his never, never! Some dun
future beckoned her in which he had no part and
he confronted the fact as a brave soldier fronts the
guns, with grim endurance, aware, yet not afraid of
death.
"If ever I loved her!" he thought. "If ever I
cease to love her then I shall be as stone-cold a man
as her fetish of a French knight, the Sieur Amadis!
Ah, my little Innocent, in time to come you may
understand what love is perhaps to your sorrow !
you may need a strong defender and I shall be
ready! Sooner or later now or years hence if you
call me, I shall answer. I would find strength to
rise from my death-bed and go to you if you wanted
me! For I love you, my little love! I love you,
and nothing can change me. Only once in a life- time
can a man love any woman as I love you!"
And with a deep vow of fidelity sworn to his se-
cret soul he sat alone, watching the shadows of
evening steal over the landscape falling, falling
slowly, like a gradually descending curtain upon all
visible things, till Briar Farm stood spectral in the
gloom like the ghost of its own departed days, and
lights twinkled in the lattice windows like little eyes
glittering in the dark. Then silently bidding fare-
well to all his former dreams of happiness, he set
himself to face "the burden and heat of the day"
that long, long day of life so difficult to live, when
deprived of love !
BOOK TWO: HIS FACT
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER I
IN London, the greatest metropolis of the world,
the smallest affairs are often discussed with more
keenness than things of national importance, and it
is by no means uncommon to find society more in-
terested in the doings of some particular man or
woman than in the latest and most money-milking
scheme of Government finance. In this way it hap-
pened that about a year after Innocent had, like
a small boat hi a storm, broken loose from her moor-
ings and drifted out to the wide sea, everybody who
was anybody became suddenly thrilled with curi-
osity concerning the unknown personality of an Au-
thor. There are so many Authors nowadays x that
it is difficult to get up even a show of interest in one
of them, everybody "writes" from Miladi in Bel-
gravia, who considers the story of her social experi-
ences, expressed in questionable grammar, quite
equal to the finest literature, down to the stable-
boy who essays a "prize" shocker for a penny dread-
ful. But this latest aspirant to literary fame had
two magnetic qualities which seldom fail to arouse
the jaded spirit of the reading public, novelty and
mystery, united to that scarce and seldom recognised
power called genius. He or she had produced a
Book. Not an ephemeral piece of fiction, not a
"Wells" effort of imagination under hydraulic pres-
sure not an hysterical outburst of sensual desire
and disappointment such as moves the souls of demi-
243
244 INNOCENT
mondaines and dressmakers, not even a "detective"
sensation but just a Book a real Book, likely to
live as long as literature itself. It was something in
the nature of a marvel, said those who knew what
they were talking about, that such a book should
have been written at all in these modern days. The
"style" of it was exquisite and scholarly quaint, ex-
pressive, and all-sufficing in its artistic simplicity,
thoughts true for all time were presented afresh with
an admirable point and delicacy that made them
seem new and singularly imperative, and the story
which, like a silken thread, held all the choice jewels
of language together in even and brilliant order, was
pure and idyllic, warm with a penetrating romance,
yet most sincerely human. When this extraordinary
piece of work was published, it slipped from the
press in quite a modest way without much prelimi-
nary announcement, and for two or three weeks after
its appearance nobody knew anything about it. The
publishers themselves were evidently in doubt as to
its reception, and signified their caution by economy
in the way of advertisement it was not placarded in
the newspaper columns as "A Book of the Century"
or "A New Literary Event." It simply glided into
the crowd of books without noise or the notice of
reviewers just one of a pushing, scrambling, shout-
ing multitude, and quite suddenly found itself the
centre of the throng with all eyes upon it, and all
tongues questioning the how, when and where of its
author. No one could say how it first began to be
thus busily talked about, the critics had bestowed
upon it nothing of either their praise or blame, yet
somehow the ball had been set rolling, and it gath-
ered size and force as it rolled, till at last the pub-
lishers woke up to the fact that they had, by merest
chance, hit upon a "paying concern." They at once
assisted in the general chorus of delight and admira-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 245
tion, taking wider space in the advertisement col-
umns of the press for the "work of genius" which
had inadvertently fallen into their hands but when
it came to answering the questions put to them re-
specting its writer they had very little to say, being
themselves more or less in the dark.
"The manuscript was sent to us in the usual way,"
the head of the firm explained to John Harrington,
one of the soundest and most influential of journal-
ists, "just on chance, it was neither introduced nor
recommended. One of our readers was immensely
taken with it and advised us to accept it. The au-
thor gave no name, and merely requested all com-
munications to be made through his secretary, a
Miss Armitage, as he wished for the time being to
remain anonymous. We drew up an Agreement on
these lines which was signed for the author by Miss
Armitage, she also corrected and passed the
proofs "
"Perhaps she also wrote the book," interrupted
Harrington, with an amused twinkle in his eyes
"I suppose such a solution of the mystery has not
occurred to you?"
The publisher smiled. "Under different circum-
stances it might have done so," he replied, "but we
have seen Miss Armitage several times she is quite
a young girl, not at all of the 'literary' type, though
she is very careful and accurate in her secretarial
work I mean as regards business letters and atten-
tion to detail. But at her age she could not have
had the scholarship to produce such a book. The
author shows a close familiarity with sixteenth-cen-
tury literature such as could only be gained by a
student of the style of that period, Miss Armitage
has nothing of the 'book-worm' about her she is
quite a simple young person more like a bright
school-girl than anything else "
246 INNOCENT
"Where does she live?" asked Harrington,
abruptly.
The publisher looked up the address and gave it.
"There it is," he said; "if you want to write to
the author she will forward any letters to him."
Harrington stared at the pencilled direction for a
moment in silence. He remembered it of course he
remembered it! it was the very address given to
the driver of the taxi-cab in which the girl with
whom he had travelled to London more than a year
ago had gone, as it seemed, out of his sight. Every
little incident connected with her came freshly back
to his mind how she had spoken of the books she
loved in "old French" and "Elizabethan English"
and how she had said she knew the way to earn
her own living. If this was the way if she was
indeed the author of the book which had stirred and
wakened the drowsing soul of the age, then she had
not ventured in vain!
Aloud he said:
"It seems to be another case of the 'Author of
Waverley' and the 'Great Unknown'! I suppose
you'll take anything else you can get by the same
hand?"
"Rather!" And the publisher nodded emphati-
cally "We have already secured a second work."
"Through Miss Armitage?"
"Yes. Through Miss Armitage."
Harrington laughed.
"I believe you're all blinder than bats!" he said
"Why on earth you should think that because a
woman looks like a school-girl she cannot write
a clever book if gifted that way, is a condition of
non-intelligence I fail to fathom! You speak of
this author as a 'he.' Do you think only a male
creature can produce a work of genius? Look at
the twaddle men turn out every day in the form
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 247
of novels alone! Many of them are worse than the
worst weak fiction by women. I tell you I've lived
long enough to know that a woman's brain can beat
a man's if she cares to test it, so long as she does
not fall in love. When once that disaster happens
it's all over with her! It's the one drawback to a
woman's career; if she would only keep clear of love
and self-sacrifice she'd do wonders! Men never al-
low love to interfere with so much as their own
smoke very few among them would sacrifice a good
cigar for a woman ! As for this girl, Miss Armitage,
I'll pluck out the heart of her mystery for you! I
suppose you won't pay any less for good work if it
turns out to be by a 'she' instead of a 'he'?"
The publisher was amused.
"Certainly not!" he answered. "We have al-
ready paid over a thousand pounds in royalties on
the present book, and we have agreed to give two
thousand in advance on the next. The author has
expressed himself as perfectly satisfied "
"Through Miss Armitage?" put in Harrington.
"Yes. Through Miss Armitage."
"Well!" And Harrington turned to go "I hope
Miss Armitage will also express herself as perfectly
satisfied after I have seen her ! I shall write and ask
permission to call "
"Surely" and the publisher looked distressed
"surely you do not intend to trouble this poor girl
by questions concerning her employer? It's hardly
fair to her! and of course it's only your way of
joking, but your idea that she wrote the book we're
all talking about is simply absurd ! She couldn't do
it! When you see her, you'll understand."
"I daresay I shall!" And Harrington smiled
"Don't you worry ! I'm too old a hand to get myself
or anybody else into trouble! But I'll wager you
anything that your simple school-girl is the author!"
248 INNOCENT
He went back then and there to the office of his big
newspaper and wrote a guarded little note as fol-
lows:
"DEAK Miss ARMITAGE,
I wonder if you remember a grumpy old fellow
who travelled with you on your first journey to Lon-
don rather more than a year ago? You never told
me your name, but I kept a note of the address you
gave through me to your taxi-driver, and through
that address I have just by chance heard that you
and the Miss Armitage who corrected the proofs of a
wonderful book recently published are one and the
same person. May I call and see you?
Yours sincerely,
JOHN HARRINGTON."
He waited impatiently for the answer, but none
came for several days. At last he received a simple
and courteous "put off," thus expressed:
"DEAR MR. HARRINGTON,
I remember you very well you were most kind,
and I am grateful for your thought of me. But
I hope you will not think me rude if I ask you not
to call. I am living as a paying guest with an old
lady whose health is not very strong and who does
not like me to receive visitors, and you can under-
stand that I try not to inconvenience her in any
way. I do hope you are well and successful.
Yours sincerely,
ENA ARMITAGE."
He folded up the note and put it in his pocket.
"That finishes me very decisively!" he said, with
a laugh at himself for his own temerity. "Who is it
says a woman cannot keep a secret? She can, and
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 249
will, and does! when it suits her to do so! Never
mind, Miss Armitage! I shall find you out when
you least expect it never fear!"
Meanwhile Miss Leigh's little house in Kensing-
ton was the scene of mingled confusion and triumph.
The "paying guest" the little unobtrusive girl, with
all her wardrobe in a satchel and her legacy of four
hundred pounds in bank-notes tucked into her
bosom had achieved a success beyond her wildest
dreams, and now had only to declare her identity to
become a "celebrity." Miss Lavinia had been
for some days in a state of nervous excitement,
knowing that it was Innocent's first literary effort
which had created such a sensation. By this time
she had learned all the girl's history Innocent had
told her everything, save and except the one fact of
her parentage, and this she held back, not out of
shame for herself, but consideration for the memory
of the handsome man whose portrait stood on the
silent harpsichord. For she in her turn had dis-
covered Miss Lavinia's secret, how the dear lady's
heart had been devoted to Pierce Armitage all her
life, and how when she knew he had been drawn
away from her and captivated by another woman
her happiness had been struck down and withered
like a flowering rose in a hard gale of wind. For
this romance, and the disillusion she had suffered,
Innocent loved her. The two had become fast
friends, almost like devoted mother and daughter.
Miss Leigh was, as she had stated in her "Morning
Post" advertisement, well-connected, and she did
much for the girl who had by chance brought a
new and thrilling interest into her life more than
Innocent could possibly have done for herself. The
history of the child, as much as she was told of it,
who had been left so casually at a country farm
on the mere chance of its being kept and taken
250 INNOCENT
care of, affected her profoundly, and when Innocent
confided to her the fact that she had never been
baptised, the gentle old lady was moved to tears.
No time was lost in lifting this spiritual ban from
the young life concerned, and the sacred rite was
performed quietly one morning in the church which
Miss Leigh had attended for many years, Miss
Leigh having herself explained beforehand some of
the circumstances to the Vicar, and standing as god-
mother to the newly-received little Christian. And
though there had arisen some question as to the
name by which she should be baptised, Miss Leigh
held tenaciously to the idea that she should retain
the name her "unknown" father had given her
"Innocent."
"Suppose he should not be dead," she said, "then
if he were to meet you some day, that name might
waken his memory and lead him to identify you.
And I like it it is pretty and original quite Chris-
tian, too, there were several Popes named Inno-
cent."
The girl smiled. She thought of Robin Clifford,
and how he had aired his knowledge to her on the
same subject.
"But it is a man's name, isn't it?" she asked.
"Not more so than a woman's, surely!" declared
Miss Leigh. "You can always call yourself 'Ena'
for short if you like but 'Innocent' is the prettier
name."
And so "Innocent" it was, and by the sprinkling
of water and the blessing of the Church the name
was finally bestowed and sanctified. Innocent her-
self was peacefully glad of her newly-attained spirit-
ual dignity and called Miss Lavinia her "fairy god-
mother."
"Do you mind?" she asked, coaxingly. "It makes
me so happy to feel that you are one of those kind
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 251
people in a fairy-tale, bringing good fortune and
blessing. I'm sure you are like that!"
Miss Lavinia protested against the sweet flattery,
but all the same she was pleased. She began to
take the girl out with her to the houses of various
"great" personages friends whom she knew well
and who made an intimate little social circle of their
own "old-fashioned" people certainly, but happily
free from the sort of suppressed rowdyism which dis-
tinguishes the "nouveaux riches" of the present day,
people who adhered rigidly to almost obsolete
notions of honour and dignity, who lived simply and
well within their means, who spoke reverently of
things religious and believed in the old adage
"Manners makyth the man." So by degrees, Inno-
cent found herself among a small choice "set" chiefly
made up of the fragments of the real "old" aris-
tocracy, to which Miss Leigh herself belonged, and,
with her own quick intuition and inborn natural
grace, she soon became a favourite with them all.
But no one knew the secret of her literary aspira-
tions save Miss Leigh, and when her book was pub-
lished anonymously and the reading world began
to talk of it as something unusual and wonderful,
she was more terrified than pleased. Its success was
greater than she had ever dreamed of, and her one
idea was to keep up the mystery of its authorship as
long as possible, but every day made this more diffi-
cult. And when John Harrington wrote to her, she
felt that disclosure was imminent. She had always
kept the visiting-card he had given her when they
had travelled to London together, and she knew he
belonged to the staff of a great and leading news-
paper, he was a man not likely to be baffled in any
sort of enquiry he might choose to make. She
thought about this as she sat in her quiet little room,
working at the last few chapters of her second book
252 INNOCENT
i
which the publishers were eagerly waiting for. What
a magical change had been wrought in her life since
she left Briar Farm more than a year, aye, nearly
eighteen months ago! For one thing, all fears of
financial difficulty were at an end. Her first book
had brought her more money than she had ever had
in her life, and the publisher's offer for her second
outweighed her most ambitious desires. She was
independent she could earn sufficient, and more
than sufficient to keep herself in positive luxury if
she chose, but for this she had no taste. Her little
rooms in Miss Leigh's house satisfied all her ideas of
rest and comfort, and she stayed on with the kind
old lady by choice and affection, helping her in many
ways, and submitting to her guidance in every little
social matter with the charming humility of a docile
and obedient spirit all too rare in these days when
youth is more full of effrontery than modesty. She
had managed her "literary" business so far well and
carefully, representing herself as the private secre-
tary of an author who wished to remain anonymous,
and who had gone abroad, entrusting her with his
manuscript to "place" with any suitable firm that
would make a suitable offer. The ruse would hardly
have succeeded in the case of any ordinary piece of
work, but the book itself was of too exceptional a
quality to be passed over, and the firm to which it
was first offered recognised this and accepted it with-
out parley, astute enough to see its possibilities and
to risk its chances of success. And now she realised
that her little plot might be discovered any day,
and that she would have to declare herself as the
writer of a strange and brilliant book which was the
talk of the moment.
"I wonder what they will say when they know it
at Briar Farm!" she thought, with a smile and a
half sigh.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 253
Briar Farm seemed a long way off in these days.
She had written occasionally both to Priscilla and
Robin Clifford ; giving her address and briefly stating
that she had taken the name of Armitage, feeling
that she had no right to that of Jocelyn. But Pris-
cilla could not write, and contented herself with
sending her "dear love and duty and do come back
soon," through Robin, who answered for both in
letters that were carefully cold and restrained. Now
that he knew where she was he made no attempt to
visit her, he was too grieved and disappointed at
her continued absence, and deeply hurt at what he
considered her "quixotic" conduct in adopting a dif-
ferent name, an "alias" as he called it.
"You have separated yourself from your old home
by your own choice in more ways than one," he
wrote, "and I see I have no right to criticise your
actions. You are in a strange place and you have
taken a strange name, I cannot feel that you are
Innocent, the Innocent of our bygone happy years !
It is better I should not go and see you not unless
you send for me, when, of course, I will come."
She was both glad and sorry for this, she would
have liked to see him again, and yet! well! she
knew instinctively that if they met, it would only
cause him fresh unhappiness. Her new life had be-
stowed new grace on her personality all the interior
intellectual phases of her mind had developed in
her a beauty of face and form which was rare, subtle
and elusive, and though she was not conscious of it
herself, she had that compelling attraction about
her which few can resist, a fascination far greater
than mere physical perfection. No one could have
called her actually beautiful, hardly could it have
been said she was even "pretty" but in her slight
figure and intelligent face with its large blue-grey
eyes half veiled under dreamy, drooping lids and
254 INNOCENT
long lashes, there was a magnetic charm which was
both sweet and powerful. Moreover, she dressed
well, in quiet taste, with a careful avoidance
of anything foolish or eccentric in fashion, and wher-
ever she went she made her effect as a graceful young
presence expressive of repose and harmony. She
spoke delightfully, in a delicious voice, attuned to
the most melodious inflections, and her constant
study of the finer literature of the past gave her
certain ways of expressing herself in a manner so far
removed from the abrupt slanginess commonly used
to-day by young people of both sexes that she was
called "quaint" by some and "weird" by others of
her own sex, though by men young and old she was
declared "charming." Guarded and chaperoned by
good old Miss Lavinia Leigh, she had no cause to be
otherwise than satisfied with her apparently reckless
and unguided plunge into the mighty vortex of Lon-
don, some beneficent spirit had led her into a haven
of safety and brought her straight to the goal of
her ambition without difficulty.
"Of course I owe it all to Dad," she thought. "If
it had not been for the four hundred pounds he left
me to 'buy pretties' with I could not have done any-
thing. I have bought my 'pretties'! not bridal
ones but things so much better!"
As the memory of her "Dad" came over her,
tears sprang to her eyes. In her mind she saw the
smooth green pastures round Briar Farm the beau-
tiful old gabled house, the solemn trees waving
their branches in the wind over the tomb of the
"Sieur Amadis," the doves wheeling round and
round in the clear air, and her own "Cupid" falling
like a snowflake from the roof to her caressing hand.
All the old life of country sights and sounds passed
before her like a fair mirage, giving place to dark
days of sorrow, disillusion and loss, the fleeting
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 255
glimpse of her self-confessed "mother," Lady Maude
Blythe, and the knowledge she had so unexpect-
edly gained as to the actual identity of her father
he, whose portrait was in the very house to which.
she had come through no more romantic means than
a chance advertisement hi the "Morning Post!" And
Miss Lavinia her "fairy godmother" could she
have found a better friend, even in any elf stepping
out of a magic pumpkin?
"If she ever knows the truth if I am ever able
to tell her that I am his daughter," she said to her-
self, "I wonder if she will care for me less or more?
But I must not tell her! She says he was so good
and noble! It would break her heart to think he
had done anything wrong or that he had deserted
his child."
And so she held her peace on this point, though
she was often tempted to break silence whenever
Miss Leigh reverted to the story of her being left in
such a casual, yet romantic way at Briar Farm.
"I wonder who the handsome man was, my dear?"
she would query "Perhaps he'll go back to the place
and enquire for you. He may be some very great
personage!"
And Innocent would smile and shake her head.
"I fear not, my godmother!" she would reply.
"You must not have any fairy dreams about me!
I was just a deserted baby not wanted in the world
but the world may have to take me all the same!"
And her eyes would flash, and her sensitive mouth
would quiver as the vision of fame like a mystical
rainbow circled the heaven of her youthful imagina-
tion while Miss Leigh would sigh, and listen and
wonder, she, whose simple hope and faith had been
centred in a love which had proved false and vain,
praying that the girl might realise her ambition
without the wreckage and disillusion of her life.
256 INNOCENT
One evening an evening destined to mark a
turning-point in Innocent's destiny they went to-
gether to an "At Home" held at a beautiful studio
in the house of an artist deservedly famous. Miss
Leigh had a great taste for pictures, no doubt fos-
tered since the early days of her romantic attach-
ment to a man who had painted them, and she
knew most of the artists whose names were more or
less celebrated in the modern world. Her host on
this special occasion was what is called a "fashion-
able" portrait painter, from the Queen downwards
he had painted the "counterfeit presentments" of
ladies of wealth and title, flattering them as deli-
cately as his really clever brush would allow, and
thereby securing golden opinions as well as golden
guineas. He was a genial, breezy sort of man,
quite without vanity or any sort of "art" ostenta-
tion, and he had been a friend of Miss Leigh's for
many years. Innocent loved going to his studio
whenever her "godmother" would take her, and he,
in his turn, found interest and amusement in talk-
ing to a girl who showed such a fresh, simple and
unworldly nature, united to intelligence and percep-
tion far beyond her years. On the particular even-
ing in question the studio was full of notable people,
not uncomfortably crowded, but sufficiently so as
to compose a brilliant effect of colour and movement
beautiful women in wonderful attire fluttered to
and fro like gaily-plumaged birds among the con-
ventionally dark-clothed men who stood about in
that aimless fashion they so often affect when dis-
inclined to talk or to make themselves agreeable,
and there was a pleasantly subdued murmur of
voices, cultured voices, well-attuned, and incapable
of breaking into the sheep-like snigger or asinine
bray. Innocent, keeping close beside her "god-
mother," watched the animated scene with happy in-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 257
terest, unconscious that many of those present
watched her in turn with a good deal of scarcely
restrained curiosity. For, somehow or other, ru-
mour had whispered a flying word or two that it was
possible she even she that young, childlike-look-
ing creature might be, and probably was the actual
author of the clever book everybody was talking
about, and though no one had the hardihood to ask
her point-blank if the report was true, people
glanced at her inquisitively and murmured their
"asides" of suggestion or incredulity, finding it dif-
ficult to believe that a woman could at any time or
by any means, alone and unaided, snatch one flower
from the coronal of fame. She looked very fair and
sweet and non-literary, clad in a simple white gown
made of some softly clinging diaphanous material,
wholly unadorned save by a small posy of natural
roses at her bosom, and as she stood a little apart
from the throng, several artists noticed the grace
of her personality one especially, a rather hand-
some man of middle age, who gazed at her observ-
antly and critically with a frank openness which,
though bold, was scarcely rude. She caught the
straight light of his keen blue eyes and a thrill
ran through her whole being, as though she had been
suddenly influenced by a magnetic current then
she flushed deeply as she fancied she saw him smile.
For the first time in her life she found pleasure in
the fact that a man had looked at her with plainly
evinced admiration in his fleeting glance, and she
watched him talking to several people who all
seemed delighted and flattered by his notice then
he disappeared. Later on in the evening she asked
her host who he was. The famous R.A. considered
for a moment.
"Do you mean a man with rough dark hair and a
258 INNOCENT
youngish face? rather good-looking in an eccentric
sort of way?"
Innocent nodded eagerly.
"Yes! And he had blue eyes."
"Had he, really!" And the great artist smiled.
"Well, I'm sure he would be flattered at your close
observation of him! I think I know him, that is,
I know him as much as he will let anybody know
him he is a curious fellow, but a magnificent
painter a real genius ! He's half French by descent,
and his name is Jocelyn, Amadis de Jocelyn."
For a moment the room went round in a giddy
whirl of colour before her eyes, she could not credit
her own hearing. Amadis de Jocelyn! the name of
her old stone Knight of France, on his tomb at Briar
Farm, with his motto "Mon cceur me soutien!"
"Amadis de Jocelyn!" she repeated, falteringly
. . . "Are you sure? ... I mean ... is that his
name really? . . . it's so unusual ... so curious
))
"Yes it is curious" agreed her host "but it's
quite a good old French name, belonging to a good
old French family. The Jocelyns bore arms for the
Due d'Anjou in the reign of Queen Elizabeth and
this man is a sort of last descendant, very proud of
his ancestry. I'll bring him along and introduce
him to you if you'll allow me."
Innocent murmured something she scarcely
knew what, and in a few minutes found herself
giving the conventional bow in response to the for-
mal words "Miss Armitage, Mr. de Jocelyn" and
looking straight up at the blue eyes that a short
while since had flashed an almost compelling glance
into her own. A strange sense of familiarity and
recognition moved her; something of the expression
of her "Dad" was in the face of this other Jocelyn
of whom she knew nothing, and her heart beat so
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 259
quickly that she could scarcely speak in answer when
he addressed her, as he did in a somewhat abrupt
manner.
"Are you an art student?"
She smiled a little.
"Oh no! I am nothing! ... I love pictures of
course "
"There is no 'of course' in it," he said, a humorous
curve lifting the corners of his moustache "You're
not bound to love pictures at all! Most people hate
them, and scarcely anybody understands them!"
She listened, charmed by the mellow and deep
vibration of his voice.
"Everybody comes to see our friend here," he
continued, with a slight gesture of his hand towards
their host, who had moved away, "because he is
the fashion. If he were not the fashion he might
paint like Velasquez or Titian and no one would care
a button!"
He seemed entertained by his own talk, and she
did not interrupt him.
"You look like a stranger here," he went on, in
milder accents "a sort of elf who has lost her way
out of fairyland! Is anyone with you?"
"Yes," she answered, quickly "Miss Leigh "
"Miss Leigh? Who is she? Your aunt or your
chaperone?"
She was more at her ease now, and laughed at his
quick, brusque manner of speech.
"Miss Leigh is my godmother," she said "I call
her my fairy godmother because she is always so
good and kind. There she is, standing by that big
easel."
He looked in the direction Indicated.
"Oh yes! I see! A charming old lady! I love
old ladies when they don't pretend to be young.
That white hair of hers is very picturesque ! So she
260 INNOCENT
is your godmother! and she takes care of you!
Well! She might do worse!"
He ruffled his thick crop of hair and looked at her
more or less quizzically.
"You have an air of suppressed enquiry," he said
"There is something on your mind ! You want to
ask me a question what is it?"
A soft colour flew over her cheeks she was con-
fused to find him reading her thoughts.
"It is really nothing!" she answered, quickly
"I was only wondering a little about your name
because it is one I have known all my life."
His eyebrows went up in surprise.
"Indeed? This is very interesting! I thought I
was the only wearer of such a very medieval appel-
lation! Is there another so endowed?"
"There was another long, long ago" and, un-
consciously to herself her delicate features softened
into a dreamy and rapt expression as she spoke,
while her voice fell into its sweetest and most per-
suasive tone. "He was a noble knight of France,
and he came over to England with the Due d' An-
jou when the great Elizabeth was Queen. He fell
in love with a very beautiful Court lady, who would
not care for him at all, so, as he was unhappy
and broken-hearted, he went away from London
and hid himself from everybody in the far country.
There he bought an old manor-house and called it
Briar Farm and he married a farmer's daughter
and settled in England for good and he had six
sons and daughters. And when he died he was
buried on his own land and his effigy is on his tomb
it was sculptured by himself. I used to put flow-
ers on it, just where his motto was carved 'Mon
cceur me soutien.' For I I was brought up at Briar
Farm . . . and I was quite fond of the Sieur Ama-
dis!"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 261
She looked up with a serious, sweet luminance in
her eyes and he was suddenly thrilled by her glance,
and moved by a desire to turn her romantic idyll
into something of reality. This feeling was merely
the physical one of an amorously minded man, he
knew, or thought he knew, women well enough to
hold them at no higher estimate than that of sex-
attraction, yet, with all the cynicism he had at-
tained through long experience of the world and its
ways, he recognised a charm in this fair little crea-
ture that was strange and new and singularly fas-
cinating, while the exquisite modulations of her
voice as she told the story of the old French knight,
so simply yet so eloquently, gave her words the
tenderness of a soft song well sung.
"A pity you should waste fondness on a man of
stone!" he said, lightly, bending his keen steel-blue
eyes on hers. "But what you tell me is most curi-
ous, for your 'Sieur Amadis' must be the missing
branch of my own ancestral tree. May I explain?
or will it bore you?"
She gave him a swift, eager glance.
"Bore me?" she echoed "How could it? Oh, do
please let me know everything quickly!"
He smiled at her enthusiasm.
"We'll sit down here out of the crowd," he said,
and, taking her arm gently, he guided her to a re-
tired corner of the studio which was curtained off
to make a cosy and softly cushioned recess. "You
have told me half a romance! Perhaps I can supply
the other half." He paused, looking at her, whimsi-
cally pleased to see the warm young blood flushing
her cheeks as he spoke, and her eyes drooping under
his penetrating gaze. "Long, long ago as you put
it in the days of good Queen Bess, there lived a
certain Hugo de Jocelin, a nobleman of France,
famed for fierce deeds of arms, and for making him-
262 INNOCENT
self generally disagreeable to his neighbours with
whom he was for ever at cross-purposes. This con-
tentious personage had two sons, Jeffrey and Ama-
dis, also knights-at-arms, inheriting the somewhat
excitable nature of their father; and the younger
of these, Amadis, whose name I bear, was selected by
the Due d'Anjou to accompany him with his train
of nobles and gentles, when that 'petit grenouille' as
he called himself, went to England to seek Queen
Elizabeth's hand in marriage. The Duke failed in
his ambitious quest, as we all know, and many of
his attendants got scattered and dispersed, among
them Amadis, who was entirely lost sight of, and
never returned again to the home of his fathers. He
was therefore supposed to be dead "
"My Amadis!" murmured Innocent, her eyes shin-
ing like stars as she listened.
"Your Amadis! yes!" And his voice softened.
"Of course he must have been your Amadis !<
your 'Knight of old and warrior bold ! ' Well ! None
of his own people ever heard of him again and in
the family tree he is marked as missing. But Jeffroy
stayed at home in France, and in due course in-
herited his father's grim old castle and lands. He
married, and had a large family, much larger than
the six olive-branches allotted to your friend of
Briar Farm," and he smiled. "He, Jeffroy, is my
ancestor, and I can trace myself back to him in di-
rect lineage, so you see I have quite the right to my
curious name!"
She clasped and unclasped her little hands ner-
vously she was shy of raising her eyes to his face.
"It is wonderful!" she murmured "I can hardly
believe it possible that I should meet here in London
a real Jocelyn! one of the family of the Sieur Ama-
dis!"
"Does it seem strange?" He laughed. "Oh no!
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 263
Nothing is strange in this queer little world! But
I don't quite know what the exact connection is
between me and your knight it's too difficult for
me to grasp! I suppose I'm a sort of great-great-
great-grand-nephew! However, nothing can alter
the fact that I am also an Amadis de Jocelyn!"
She glanced up at him quickly.
"You are, indeed ! " she said. "It is you who ought
to be the master of Briar Farm!"
"Ought I?" He was amused at her earnestness.
"Why?"
"Because there is no direct heir now to the Sieur
Amadis!" she answered, almost sadly. "His last de-
scendant is dead. His name was Hugo Hugo Joce-
lyn and he was a farmer, and he left all he had
to his nephew, the only child of his sister who died
before him. The nephew is very good, and clever,
too, he was educated at Oxford, but he is not an
actually lineal descendant."
He laughed again, this time quite heartily, at the
serious expression of her face.
"That's very terrible!" he said. "I don't know
when I've heard anything so lamentable! And I'm
afraid I can't put matters right! I should never do
for a farmer I'm a painter. I had better go down
and see this famous old place, and the tomb of my
ever so great-great-grand-uncle! I could make a
picture of it I ought to do that, as it belonged to
the family of my ancestors. Will you take me?"
She gave him a little fleeting, reluctant smile.
"You are making fun of it all," she said. "That
is not wise of you! You should not laugh at grave
and noble things."
He was charmed with her quaintness.
"Was he grave and noble? Amadis, I mean?"
he asked, his blue eyes sparkling with a kind of
mirthful ardour. "You are sure? Well, all honour
264 INNOCENT
to him ! And to you for believing in him ! I hope
you'll consider me kindly for his sake! Will you?"
A quick blush suffused her cheeks.
"Of course! I must do so!" she answered, sim-
ply. "I owe him so much " then, fearful of be-*
traying her secret of literary authorship, she hesi-
tated "I mean he taught me all I know. I studied
all his old books. . . ."
Just then their cheery host came up.
"Well! Have you made friends? Ah! I see you
have! Mutual intelligence, mutual comprehension!
Jocelyn, will you bring Miss Innocent in to supper?
I leave her in your charge."
"Miss Innocent?" repeated Jocelyn, doubtful as
to whether this was said by way of a joke or not.
"Yes some people call her Ena but her real
name is Innocent. Isn't it, little lady?"
She smiled and coloured. Jocelyn looked at her
with a curious mtentness.
"Really? Your name is Innocent?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered him "I'm afraid it's a very
unusual name "
"It is indeed ! " he said with emphasis. "Innocent
by name and by nature! Will you come?"
She rose at once, and they moved away together.
CHAPTER II
CHANCE and coincidence play curious pranks with
human affairs, and one of the most obvious facts of
daily experience is that the merest trifle, occurring in
the most haphazard way, will often suffice to change
the whole intention and career of a life for good or
for evil. It is as though a musician in the composi-
tion of a symphony should suddenly bethink himself
of a new and strange melody, and, pleasing his fancy
with the innovation, should wilfully introduce it at
the last moment, thereby creating more or less of a
surprise for the audience. Something of this kind
happened to Innocent after her meeting with the
painter who bore the name of her long idealised
knight of France, Amadis de Jocelin. She soon
learned that he was a somewhat famous personage,
famous for his genius, his scorn of accepted rules,
and his contempt for all "puffery," push and patron-
age, as well as for his brusquerie in society and care-
lessness of conventions. She also heard that his
works had been rejected twice by the Royal Acad-
emy Council, a reason he deemed all-sufficient for
never appealing to that exclusive school of favourit-
ism again, while everything he chose to send was
eagerly accepted by the French Salon, and pur-
chased as soon as exhibited. His name had begun
to stand very high and his original character and
personality made him somewhat of a curiosity
among men one more feared than favoured. He
took a certain pleasure in analysing his own dispo-
sition for the benefit of any of his acquaintances
265
266 INNOCENT
who chose to listen, and the harsh judgment he
passed on himself was not altogether without jus-
tice or truth.
"I am an essentially selfish man," he would say
"I have met selfishness everywhere among my fel-
low men and women, and have imbibed it as a sponge
imbibes water. I've had a fairly hard time, and
I've experienced the rough side of human nature,
getting more kicks than halfpence. Now that the
kicks have ceased I'm in no mood for soft soap. I
know the humbug of so-called 'friendship' the
rarity of sincerity and as for love! there's no
such thing permanently in man, woman or child.
What is called 'love' is merely a comfortable con-
sciousness that one particular person is agreeable and
useful to you for a time but it's only for a time
and marriage which seeks to bind two people to-
gether till death is the heaviest curse ever imposed
on manhood or womanhood! Devotion and self-
sacrifice are merest folly the people you sacrifice
yourself for are never worth it, and devotion is gen-
erally, if not always, misplaced. The only thing to
do in this life is to look after yourself, serve your-
self please yourself! No one will do anything for
you unless they can get something out of it for
their own advantage, you're bound to follow the
general example!"
Notwithstanding this candid confession of cynical
egotism, the man had greatness in him, and those
who knew his works readily recognised his power.
The impression he had made on Innocent's guileless
and romantic nature was beyond analysis, she did
not try to understand it herself. His name and the
connection he had with the old French knight of her
childhood's dreams and fancies had moved and
roused her to a new interest in life and just as she
had hitherto been unwilling to betray the secret of
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 26T
her literary authorship, she was now eager to have
it declared for one reason only, that he might per-
haps think well of her. Whereby it will be seen that
the poor child, endowed with a singular genius as
she was, knew nothing of men and their never- failing
contempt for the achievements of gifted women.
Delicate of taste and sensitive hi temperament she
was the very last sort of creature to realise the ugly
truth that men, taken en masse, consider women in
one only way that of sex, as the lower half of
man, necessary to man's continuance, but always the
mere vessel of his pleasure. To her, Amadis de Joce-
lyn was the wonderful realisation of an ideal, but
she was very silent concerning him, reserved and
almost cold. This rather surprised good Miss La-
vinia Leigh, whose romantic tendencies had been
greatly stirred by the story of the knight of Briar
Farm and the discovery of a descendant of the same
family in one of the most admired artists of the day.
They visited Jocelyn's studio together a vast, bare
place, wholly unadorned by the tawdry parapherna-
lia which is sometimes affected by third-rate men to
create an "art" impression on the minds of the un-
instructed and they had stood lost in wonder and
admiration before a great picture he was painting
on commission, entitled "Wild Weather." It was
what is called by dealers an "important work," and
represented night closing in over a sea lashed into
fury by the sweep of a stormy wind. So faithfully
was the scene of terror and elemental confusion ren-
dered that it was like nature itself, and the imagina-
tive eye almost looked for the rising waves to tum-
ble liquidly from the painted canvas and break on
the floor in stretches of creamy foam. Gentle Miss
Leigh was conscious of a sudden beating of the heart
as she looked at this masterpiece of form and colour,
it reminded her of the work of Pierce Armitage.
268 INNOCENT
She ventured to say so, with a little hesitation, and
Jocelyn caught at the name.
"Armitage? Yes he was beginning to be rather
famous some five-and-twenty years ago I wonder
what became of him? He promised great things. By
the way" and he turned to Innocent "Your name
is Armitage! Any relation to him?"
The colour rushed to her cheeks and fled again,
leaving her very pale.
"No," she answered.
He looked at her inquisitively.
"Well, Armitage is not as outlandish a name as
Amadis de Jocelyn," he said "You will hardly find
two of mel and I expect I shall hardly find two of
you\" and he smiled "especially if what I have
heard is anything more than rumour!"
Her eyes filled with an eager light.
"What do you mean?"
He laughed, yet in himself was conscious of a
certain embarrassment.
"Well! that a certain 'Innocent' young lady is
a great author!" he said "There! You have it!
I'm loth to believe it, and hope the report isn't true,
for I'm afraid of clever women ! Indeed I avoid them
whenever I can!"
A sudden sense of hopelessness and loss fell over
her like a cloud her lips quivered.
"Why should you do so?" she asked "We do not
avoid clever men!"
He smiled.
"Ah! That is different!"
She was silent. Miss Leigh looked a little dis-
tressed.
He went on lightly.
"My dear Miss Armitage, don't be angry with
me!" he said "You are so delightfully ignorant of
the ways qf our sex, and I for one heartily wish you
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 269
might always remain so! But we men are pro-
verbially selfish and we like to consider cleverness,
or 'genius' if you will, as our own exclusive property.
We hate the feminine poacher on our particular pre-
serves! We consider that women were made to
charm and to amuse us not to equal us. Do you
see? When a woman is clever perhaps cleverer
than we are she ceases to be amusing and we must
be amused! We cannot have our fun spoiled by
the blue-stocking element though you you do not
look in the least 'blue'!"
She turned from him in a mute vexation. She
thought his talk trifling and unmanly. Miss Leigh
came to the rescue.
"No Innocent is certainly not 'blue/ " she said,
sweetly "If by that term you mean 'advanced' or
in any way unwomanly. But she has been singu-
larly gifted by nature yes, dear child, I must be al-
lowed to speak!" this, as Innocent made an appeal-
ing gesture, "and if people say she is the author
of the book that is just now being so much talked
of, they are only saying the truth. The secret can-
not be kept much longer."
He heard then went quickly up to the girl where
she stood in a somewhat dejected attitude near his
easel.
"Then it is true!" he said "I heard it yesterday
from an old journalist friend of mine, John Harring-
ton but I couldn't quite believe it. Let me con-
gratulate you on your brilliant success "
"You do not care!" she said, almost in a whisper.
"Oh, do I not?" He was amused, and taking her
hand kissed it lightly. "If all literary women were
like you "
He left the sentence unfinished, but his eyes con-
veyed a wordless language which made her heart
beat foolishly and her nerves thrill. She forgot the
270 INNOCENT
easy mockery which had distinguished his manner
since when speaking of the "blue-stocking element"
and once more "Amadis de Jocelyn" sat firmly on
her throne of the ideal!
That very afternoon, on her return from Jocelyn's
studio to Miss Leigh's little house in Kensington
which she now called her "home" she found a re-
ply-paid telegram from her publishers, running
thus:
"Eminent journalist John Harrington reviews
book favourably in evening paper suggesting that
you are the actual author. May we deny or con-
firm?"
She thought for some minutes before deciding
and went to Miss Leigh with the telegram in her
hand.
"Godmother mine!" she said, kneeling down be-
side her "Tell me, what shall I do? Is it any use
continuing to wear the veil of mystery? Shall I
take up my burden and bear it like a man?"
Miss Lavinia smiled, and drew the girl's fair head
to her bosom.
"Poor little one!" she said, tenderly "I know
just what you feel about it! You would rather re-
main quietly in your own dreamland than face the
criticism of the world, or be pointed out as a 'cele-
brity' yes, I quite understand! But I think you
must, in justice to yourself and others, 'take up the
burden' as you put it yes, child ! You must wear
your laurels, though for you I should prefer the
rose!"
Innocent shivered, as with sudden cold.
"A rose has thorns!" she said, as she got up from
her kneeling attitude and moved away "It's beau-
tiful to look at but it soon fades!"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 271
She sent off her reply wire to the publishers with-
out further delay.
"Statement quite true. You can confirm it pub-
licly."
And so the news was soon all over London, and for
that matter all over the world. From one end of
the globe to the other the fact was made known that
a girl in her twentieth year had produced a literary
masterpiece, admirable both in design and execution,
worthy to rank with the highest work of the most
brilliant and renowned authors. She was speedily
overwhelmed by letters of admiration, and invita-
tions from every possible quarter where "lion-hunt-
ing" is practised as a stimulant to jaded and over-
wrought society, but amid all the attractions and
gaieties offered to her she held fast by her sheet-
anchor of safety, Miss Leigh, who redoubled her lov-
ing care and vigilance, keeping her as much as she
could in the harbour of that small and exclusive "set"
of well-bred and finely-educated people for whom
noise and fuss and show meant all that was worst
in taste and manners. And remaining more or less
in seclusion, despite the growing hubbub around her
name, she finished her second book, and took it her-
self to the great publishing house which was rapidly
coining good hard cash out of the delicate dream of
her woman's brain. The head of the firm received
her with eager and respectful cordiality.
"You kept your secret very well!" he said "I
assure you I had no idea you could be the author
of such a book! you are so young "
She smiled, a little sadly.
"One may be young in years and old in thought,"
she answered "I passed all my childhood in read-
ing and studying I had no playmates and no games
272 INNOCENT
and I was nearly always alone. I had only old
books to read mostly of the sixteenth century I
suppose I formed a 'style' unconsciously on these."
"It is a very beautiful and expressive style," said
the publisher "I told Mr. Harrington, when he first
suggested that you might be the author, that it was
altogether too scholarly for a girl."
She gave a slight deprecatory gesture.
"Pray do not let us discuss it," she said "I am
not at all pleased to be known as the author."
"No?" And he looked surprised "Surely you
must be happy to become so suddenly famous?' 7
"Are famous persons happy?" she asked "I don't
think they are! To be stared at and whispered
about and criticised thatfs not happiness! And
men never like you!"
The publisher laughed.
"You can do without their liking, Miss Armitage,"
he said "You've beaten all the literary fellows on
their own ground ! You ought to be satisfied. We
are very proud!"
"Thank you!" she said, simply, as she rose to go
"I am grateful for your good opinion."
When she had left him, the publisher eagerly
turned over the pages of her new manuscript. At a
glance he saw that there was no "falling-off" he
recognised the same lucidity of expression, the same
point and delicacy of phraseology which had dis-
tinguished her first effort, and the wonderful charm
with which a thought was pressed firmly yet ten-
derly home to its mark.
"It will be a greater triumph for her and for us
than the previous book!" he said "She's a won-
der! and the most wonderful thing about her is
that she has no conceit, and is unconscious of her
own power!"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 273
Two or three days after the announcement of her
authorship, came a letter from Robin Clifford.
"DEAR INNOCENT," it ran, "I see that your name,
or rather the name you have taken for yourself, is
made famous as that of the author of a book which
is creating a great sensation and I venture to write
a word of congratulation, hoping it may be accept-
able to you from your playmate and friend of by-
gone days. I can hardly believe that the dear little
'Innocent' of Briar Farm has become such a cele-
brated and much-talked-of personage, for after all it
is not yet two years since you left us. I have told
Priscilla, and she sends her love and duty, and hopes
God will allow her to see you once again before she
dies. The work of the farm goes on as usual, and
everything prospers all is as Uncle Hugo would
have wished all except one thing which I know will
never be ! But you must not think I grumble at my
fate. I might feel lonely if I had not plenty of work
to do and people dependent on me but under such
circumstances I manage to live a life that is at least
useful to others and I want for nothing. In the
evenings when the darkness closes in, and we light
the tall candles in the old pewter sconces, I often
wish I could see a little fair head shining like a
cameo against the dark oak panelling a vision of
grace and hope and comfort! but as this cannot be,
I read old books even some of those belonging to
your favourite French Knight Amadis! and try to
add to the little learning I gained at Oxford. I am
sending for your book! when it comes I shall read
every word of it with an interest too deep to Be ex-
pressed to you in my poor language. 'Cupid' is
well he flies to my hand, surprised, I think, to find
it of so rough a texture as compared with the little
274 INNOCENT
rose-velvet palm to which he was accustomed. Will
you ever come to Briar Farm again? God bless you!
ROBIN."
She shed some tears over this letter then, moved
by a sudden impulse, sat down and answered it at
once, giving a full account of her meeting and ac-
quaintance with another Amadis de Jocelyn "the
real last descendant," she wrote, "of the real old fam-
ily of the very Amadis of Briar Farm!" She de-
scribed his appearance and manners, descanted on
his genius as a painter, and all unconsciously poured
out her ardent, enthusiastic soul on this wonderful
discovery of the Real in the Ideal. She said nothing
of her own work or success, save that she was glad to
be able to earn her living. And when Robin read
the simple outflow of her thoughts his heart grew
cold within him. He, with the keen instinct of a
lover, guessed at once all that might happen, saw
the hidden fire smouldering, and became conscious
of an inexplicable dread, as though a note of alarm
had sounded mystically in his brain. What would
happen to Innocent, if she, with her romantic, old-
world fancies, should allow a possible traitor to in-
trude within the crystal-pure sphere where her sweet
soul dwelt unsullied and serene? He told Priscilla
the strange story and she in her shrewd, motherly
way felt something of the same fear.
"Eh, the poor lamb!" she sighed "That old
French knight was ever a fly in her brain and a
stumbling-block in the way of us all! and now to
come across a man o' the same name an' family,
turning up all unexpected like, why, it's like a
ghost's sudden risin' from the tomb ! An' what does
it mean, Mister Robin? Are you the master o' Briar
Farm now? or is he the rightful one?"
Clifford laughed, a trifle bitterly.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 275
"I am the master," he said, "according to my
uncle's will. This man is a painter famous and
admired, he'll scarcely go in for farming! If he
did if he'd buy the farm from me I should be glad
enough to sell it and leave the country."
"Mister Robin!" cried Priscilla, reproachfully.
He patted her hand gently.
"Not yet not yet anyhow, Priscilla!" he said
"I may be yet of some use to Innocent." He
paused, then added, slowly "I think we shall hear
more of this second Amadis de Jocelyn!"
But months went on, and he heard nothing, save
of Innocent's growing fame which, by leaps and
bounds, was spreading abroad like fire blown into
brightness by the wind. He got her first book and
read it with astonishment and admiration, utterly
confounded by its brilliancy and power. When her
second work appeared with her adopted name ap-
pended to it as the author, all the reading world
"rushed" at it, and equally "rushed" at her, lifting
her, as it were, on their shoulders and bearing her
aloft, against her own desire, above the seething tide
of fashion and frivolity as though she were a queen
of many kingdoms, crowned with victory. And again
the old journalist, John Harrington, sought an au-
dience of her, and this time was not refused. She,
received him in Miss Leigh's little drawing-room,
holding out both her hands to him in cordial wel-
come, with a smile frank and sincere enough to show
him at a glance that her "celebrity" had left her un-
scathed. She was still the same simple child-like
soul, wearing the mystical halo of spiritual dreams
rather than the brazen baldric of material prosper-
ity and he, bitterly seasoned in the hardest ways
of humanity, felt a thrill of compassion as he looked
at her, wondering how her frail argosy, freighted with
fine thought and rich imagination, would weather a
276 INNOCENT
storm should storms arise. He sat talking for a long
time with her and Miss Leigh reminding her pleas-
antly of their journey up to London together,
while she, in her turn, amused and astonished him
by avowing the fact that it was his loan of the
"Morning Post" that had led her, through an adver-
tisement, to the house where she was now living.
"So I've had something of a hand in it all!" he
said, cheerily "I'm glad of that! It was chance or
luck, or whatever you call it! but I never thought
that the little girl with the frightened eyes, carry-
ing a satchel for all her luggage, was a future great
author, to whom I, as a poor old journalist, would
have to bow!" He laughed kindly as he spoke-
"And you are still a little girl! or you look one!
I feel disposed to play literary grandfather to you!
But you want nobody's help you have made your-
self!"
"She has, indeed!" said Miss Leigh, with pride
sparkling in her tender eyes "When she came here,
and suddenly decided to stay with me, I had no idea
of her plans, or what she was studying. She used
to shut herself up all the morning and write she
told me she was finishing off some work in fact it
was her first book, a manuscript she brought with
her from the country in that famous satchel! I
knew nothing at all about it till she confided to me
one day that she had written a book, and that it
had been accepted by a publisher. I was amazed!"
"And the result must have amazed you still more,"
said Harrington, "but I'm a very astute person !
and I guessed at once, when I was told the address
of the 'private secretary of the author/ that the sec-
retary was the author herself!"
Innocent blushed.
"Perhaps it was wrong to say what was not true,"
she said, "but really I was and am the secretary of
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 277
the author! I write all the manuscript with my own
hand!"
They laughed at this, and then Harrington went
on to say
"I believe you know the painter Amadis Jocelyn,
don't you? Yes? Well, I was with him the other
day, and I said you were the author of the wonder-
ful book. He told me I was talking nonsense that
you couldn't be, he had met you at an artist's even-
ing party and that you had told him a story about
some ancestor of his own family. 'She's a nice little
thing with baby eyes,' he said, 'but she couldn't write
a clever book ! She may have got some man to write
it for her!"
Innocent gave a little cry of pain.
"Oh! did he say that?"
"Of course he did ! All men say that sort of thing!
They can't bear a woman to do more than marry and
have children. Simple girl with the satchel, don't
you know that? You mustn't mind it it's their
way. Of course I rounded on Jocelyn and told him
he was a fool, with a swelled head on the subject of
his own sex he is a fool hi many ways, he's a great
painter, but he might be much greater if he'd get up
early in the morning and stick to his work. He
ought to have been in the front rank long ago."
"But surely he is in the front rank?" queried Miss
Leigh, mildly "He is a wonderful artist!"
"Wonderful yes! with a lot of wonderful things
in him which haven't come out!" declared Harring-
ton, "and which never will come out, I fear! He
turns night into day too often. Oh, he's clever!
I grant you all that but he hasn't a resolute will or
a great mind, like Watts or Burne-Jones or any of
the fellows who served their art nobly he's a sel-
fish sort of chap!"
Innocent heard, and longed to utter a protest
278 INNOCENT
she wanted to say "No, no! you wrong him! He
is good and noble he must be! he is Amadis de
Jocelyn!"
But she repressed her thought and sat very quiet,
then, when Harrington paused, she told him in a
sweet, even voice the story of the "Knight of France"
who founded Briar Farm. He was enthralled not
so much by the tale as by her way of telling it.
"And so Jocelyn the painter is the lineal descend-
ant of the brother of your Jocelin! the knight who
disappeared and took to farming in the days of Eliza-
beth!" he said "Upon my word, it's a quaint bit
of history and coincidence almost too romantic for
such days as these!"
Innocent smiled.
"Is romance at an end now?" she asked.
Harrington looked at her kindly.
"Almost! It's gasping its last gasp in company
with poetry. Realism is our only wear Realism
and Prose very prosy Prose. You are a romantic
child! I can see that! but don't over-do it! And
if you ever made an ideal out of your sixteenth-cen-
tury man, don't make another out of the twentieth-
century one! He couldn't stand it! he'd crumble
at a touch!"
She answered nothing, but avoided his glance. He
prepared to take his leave and on rising from his
chair suddenly caught sight of the portrait on the
harpsichord.
"I know that face!" he said, quickly, "Who is
he?"
"He was also a painter as great as the one we
have just been speaking of," answered Miss Leigh
"His name was Pierce Armitage."
"That's it!" exclaimed Harrington, with some ex-
citement. "Of course! Pierce Armitage! I knew
him! One of the handsomest fellows I ever saw!
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 279!
There was an artist, if you like! he might have
been anything! What became of him? do you
know?"
"He died abroad, so it is said" and Miss Leigh's
gentle voice trembled a little "but nothing is quite
certainly known "
Harrington turned swiftly to stare eagerly at In-
nocent.
"Your name is Armitage!" he said "and do you
know you are rather like him! Your face reminds
me Are you any relative?"
She gave the usual answer
"No."
"Strange!" He bent his eyes scrutinisingly upon
her. "I remember I thought the same thing when
I first met you and his features are not easily for-
gotten! You have his eyes and mouth, you
might almost be his daughter!"
Her breath quickened
"I wish I were!" she said.
He still looked puzzled.
"No don't wish for what would perhaps be a
misfortune!" he said "You've done very well for
yourself! but don't be romantic! Keep that old
'French knight' of yours in the pages of an old
French chronicle! shut the volume, lock it up,
and lose the key!"
CHAPTER III
SOME weeks later on, when the London season was
at its height, and Fashion, that frilled and furbe-
lowed goddess, sat enthroned in state, controlling the
moods of the Meet and Select which she chooses to
call "society," Innocent was invited to the house of
a well-known Duchess, renowned for a handsome
personality, and also for an unassailable position,
notwithstanding certain sinister rumours. People
said people are always saying something! that
her morals were easy-going, but everyone agreed that
her taste was unimpeachable. Shethis great lady
whose rank permitted her to entertain the King and
Queen heard of "Ena Armitage" as the brilliant au-
thor whose books were the talk of the town, and
forthwith made up her mind that she must be seen
at her house as the "sensation" of at least one even-
ing. To this end she glided in her noiseless, satin-
cushioned motor brougham up to the door of Miss
Leigh's modest little dwelling and left the necessary
slips of pasteboard bearing her titled name, with
similar slips on behalf of her husband the Duke,
for Miss Armitage and Miss Leigh. The slips were
followed in due course by a more imposing and for-
mal card of invitation to a "Reception and Small
Dance. R.S.V.P." On receiving this, good old Miss
Lavinia was a little fluttered and excited, and turn-
ing it over and over in her hand, looked at Innocent
with a kind of nervous anxiety.
"I think we ought to go, my dear," she said
"or rather I don't know about myself but you
280
ought to go certainly. It's a great house a great
family and she is a very great lady a little well!
a little 'modern' perhaps "
Innocent lifted her eyebrows with a slight, almost
weary smile. A scarcely perceptible change had
come over her of late a change too subtle to be no-
ticed by anyone who was not as keenly observant
as Miss Lavinia but it was sufficient to give the
old lady who loved her cause for a suspicion of
trouble.
"What is it to be modern?" she asked "In your
sense, I mean? I know what is called 'modern' gen-
erally bad art, bad literature, bad manners and bad
taste! But what do you call modern?"
Miss Leigh considered looking at the girl with
steadfast, kindly eyes.
"You speak a trifle bitterly for you, dear child!"
she said "These things you name as 'modern' truly
are so, but they are ancient as well! The world
has altered very little, I think. What we call 'bad'
has always existed as badness it is only presented
to us in different forms "
Innocent laughed a soft little laugh of tender-
ness.
"Wise godmother!" she said, playfully "You talk
like a book!"
Miss Lavinia laughed too, and a pretty pink colour
came into her wan cheeks.
"Naughty child, you are making fun of me!"
she said "What I meant about the Duchess "
Innocent stretched out her hand for the card of
invitation and looked at it.
"Well!" she said, slowly "What about the
Duchess?"
Miss Leigh hesitated.
"I hardly know how to put it," she answered, at
lask "She's a kind-hearted woman very generous
282 INNOCENT
and most helpful in works of charity. I never
knew such energy as she shows in organising charity
balls and bazaars! perfectly wonderful! but she
likes to live her life "
"Who would not!" murmured the girl, scarcely au-
dibly.
"And she lives it very much so! rather to the
dregs!" continued the old lady, with emphasis.
"She has no real aim beyond the satisfaction of her
own vanity and social power and you, with your
beautiful thoughts and ideals, might not like the
kind of people she surrounds herself with people,
who only want amusement and 'sensation' particu-
larly sensation "
Innocent said nothing for a minute or two then
she looked up, brightly.
"To go or not to go, godmother mine! Which is
it to be? The decision rests with you! Yes, or
no?"
"I think it must be 'yes' " and Miss Leigh em-
phasised the word with a little nod of her head. "It
would be unwise to refuse especially just now when
everyone is talking of you and wishing to see you.
And you are quite worth seeing!"
The girl gave a slight gesture of indifference and
moved away slowly and listlessly, as though fa-
tigued by the mere effort of speech. Miss Leigh
noted this with some concern, watching her as she
went, and admiring the supple grace of her small
figure, the well-shaped little head so proudly poised
on the slim throat, and the burnished sheen of her
bright hair.
"She grows prettier every day," she thought
"But not happier, I fear! not happier, poor
child!"
Innocent meanwhile, upstairs in her own little
study, was reading and re-reading a brief letter
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 283
which had come for her by the same post that had
delivered the Duchess's invitation.
"I hear you are among the guests invited to the
Duchess of Deanshire's party," it ran "I hope you
will go for the purely selfish reason that I want
to meet you there. Hers is a great house with plenty
of room, and a fine garden for London. People
crowd to her 'crushes/ but one can always escape
the mob. I have seen so little of you lately, and you
are now so famous that I shall think myself lucky if
I may touch the hem of your garment. Will you
encourage me thus far? Like Hamlet, 'I lack ad-
vancement' ! When will you take me to Briar Farm?
I should like to see the tomb of my very ancestral
uncle could we not arrange a day's outing in the
country while the weather is fine? I throw myself
on your consideration and clemency for this and
for many other unwritten things!
Yours,
AMADIS DE JOCELYN."
There was nothing in this easily worded scrawl to
make an ordinarily normal heart beat faster, yet the
heart of this simple child of the gods, gifted with
genius and deprived of worldly wisdom as all such
divine children are, throbbed uneasily, and her eyes
were wet. More than this, she touched the signa-
ture, the long-familiar name with her soft lips,
and as though afraid of what she had done, hurriedly
folded the letter and locked it away.
Then she sat down and thought. Nearly two years
had elapsed since she had left Briar Farm, and in,
that short time she had made the name she had
adopted famous. She could not call it her own
name ; born out of wedlock, she had no right, by the
stupid law, to the name of her father. She could,
284 INNOCENT
legally, have worn the maiden name of her mother
had she known it but she did not know it. And
what she was thinking of now, was this: Should she
tell her lately discovered second "Amadis de Joce-
lyn" the true story of her birth and parentage at
this, the outset of their friendship, before well, be-
fore it went any further? She could not consult Miss
Leigh on the point, without smirching the reputa-
tion of Pierce Armitage, the man whose memory
was enshrined in that dear lady's heart as a thing
of unsullied honour. She puzzled herself over the
question for a long time, and then decided to keep
her own counsel.
"After all, why should I tell him?" she asked her-
self. "It might make trouble he is so proud of his,
lineage, and I too am proud of it for him ! . . . why
should I let him know that I inherit nothing but my
mother's shame!"
Her heart grew heavy as her position was thus
forced back upon her by her own thoughts. Up to
the present no one had asked who she was, or where
she came from she was understood to be an orphan,
left alone in the world, who by her own genius and
unaided effort had lifted herself into the front rank
among the "shining lights" of the day. This, so far,
had been sufficient information for all with whom
she had come in contact but as time went on, would
not people ask more about her? who were her father
and mother? where she was born? how she had
been educated? These inquisitorial demands were
surely among the penalties of fame! And, if she told
the truth, would she not, despite the renown she had
won, be lightly, even scornfully esteemed by con-
ventional society as a "bastard" and interloper,
though the manner of her birth was no fault of her
own, and she was unjustly punishable for the sins
of her parents, such being the wicked law!
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 285
The night of the Duchess's reception was one of
those close sultry nights of June in London when the
atmosphere is well-nigh as suffocating as that of
some foetid prison where criminals have been pacing
their dreary round all day. Royal Ascot was just
over, and space and opportunity were given for sev-
eral social entertainments to be conveniently checked
off before Henley. Outside the Duke's great house
there was a constant stream of motor-cars and taxi-
cabs; a passing stranger might have imagined all
the world and his wife were going to the Duchess's
"At Home." It was difficult to effect an entrance,
but once inside, the 'scene was one of veritable en-
chantment. The lovely hues and odours of flowers,
the softened glitter of thousands of electric lamps
shaded with rose-colour, the bewildering brilliancy
of women's clothes and jewels, the exquisite music
pouring like a rippling stream through the magnifi-
cent reception-rooms, all combined to create a magi-
cal effect of sensuous beauty and luxury ; and as In-
nocent, accompanied by the sweet-faced old-fash-
ioned lady who played the part of chaperone with
such gentle dignity, approached her hostess, she was
a little dazzled and nervous. Her timidity made her
look all the more charming she had the air of a
wondering child called up to receive an unexpected
prize at school. She shrank visibly when her name
was shouted out in a stentorian voice by the gor-
geously liveried major-domo in attendance, quite un-
aware that ic created a thrill throughout the fash-
ionable assemblage, and that all eyes were instantly
upon her. The Duchess, diamond-crowned and glori-
ous in gold-embroidered tissue, kept back by a slight
gesture the pressing crowd of guests, and extended
her hand with marked graciousness and a delightful
smile.
"Such a pleasure and honour!" she said, sweetly
286 INNOCENT
"So good of you to come! You will give me a few
words with you later on? Yes? Everybody will
want to speak to you! but you must let me have a
chance too!"
Innocent murmured something gently deprecatory
as a palliative to this sort of society "gush" which
always troubled her and moved on. Everybody
gazed, whispered and wondered, astonished at the
youth and evident unworldliness of the "author of
those marvellous books!" so the commentary ran;
the women criticised her gown, which was one
of pale blue silken stuff caught at the waist and
shoulders by quaint clasps of dull gold a gown with
nothing remarkable about it save its cut and fit
melting itself, as it were, around her in harmonious
folds of fine azure which suggested without empha-
sising the graceful lines of her form. The men
looked, and said nothing much except "A pity she's
a writing woman! Mucking about Fleet Street!"
mere senseless talk which they knew to be senseless,
inasmuch as "mucking" about Fleet Street is no part
of any writer's business save that of the professional
journalist. Happily ignorant of comment, the girl
made her way quietly and unobtrusively through the
splendid throng, till she was presently addressed by
a stoutish, pleasant-featured man, with small twink-
ling eyes and an agreeable surface manner.
"I missed you just now when my wife received
you," he said "May I present myself? I am your
host proud of the privilege!"
Innocent smiled as she bowed and held out her
hand; she was amused, and taken a little by sur-
prise. This was the Duke of Deanshire this quite
insignificant-looking personage he was the owner of
the great house and the husband of the great lady,
and yet he had the appearance of a very ordinary
nobody. But that he was a "somebody" of para-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 287
mount importance there was no doubt; and when he
said, "May I give you my arm and take you through
the rooms? There are one or two pictures you may
like to see," she was a little startled. She looked
round for Miss Leigh, but that tactful lady, seeing
the position, had disappeared. So she laid her little
cream-gloved hand on the Duke's arm and went with
him, shyly at first, yet with a pretty stateliness
which was all her own, and moving slowly among the
crowd of guests, gradually recovered her ease and
self-possession, and began to talk to him with a de-
lightful naturalness and candour which fairly capti-
vated His Grace, in fact, "bowled him over," as he
afterwards declared. She was blissfully unaware
that his manner of escorting her on his arm through
the long vista of the magnificent rooms had been
commanded and arranged by the Duchess, in order
that she should be well looked at and criticised by all
assembled as the "show" person of the evening. She
was so unconscious of the ordeal to which she was
being subjected that she bore it with the perfect in-
difference which such unconsciousness gives. All at
once the Duke came to a standstill.
"Here is a great friend of mine one of the best I
have in the world," he said "I want to introduce
him to you," this, as a tall old man paused near
them with a smile and enquiring glance, "Lord
Blythe Miss Armitage."
Innocent's heart gave a wild bound ; for a moment
she felt a struggling sensation in her throat moving
her to cry out, and it was only with a violent effort
that she repressed herself.
"You've heard of Miss Armitage Ena Armitage,
haven't you, Blythe?" went on the Duke, garru-
lously. "Of course! all the world has heard of her!"
"Indeed it has!" and Lord Blythe bowed cere-
moniously. "May I congratulate you on winning
288 INNOCENT
your laurels while you are young enough to enjoy
them! One moment! my wife is most anxious to
meet you
He turned to look for her, while Innocent, tremb-
ling violently, wondered desperately whether it
would be possible for her to run away! anywhere
anywhere, rather than endure what she knew must
come! The Duke noticed her sudden pallor with
concern.
"Are you cold?" he asked "I hope there is no
draught "
"Oh no no!" she murmured "It is nothing "
Then she braced herself up in every nerve draw-
ing her little body erect, as though a lily should lift
itself to the sun she saw Lord Blythe approaching
with a handsome woman dressed in silvery grey and
wearing a coronet of emeralds and in one more mo-
ment looked full in the face of her mother!
"Lady Blythe Miss Armitage."
Lady Blythe turned white to the lips. Her dark
eyes opened widely in amazement and fear she put
out a hand as though to steady herself. Her husband
caught it, alarmed.
"Maude! Are you ill?"
"Not at all!" and she forced a laugh. "I am per-
fectly perfectly well! a little faint perhaps! The
heat, I think! Yes of course! Miss Armitage the
famous author! I am I am very proud to meet
you!"
"Most kind of you ! " said Innocent, quietly.
And they still looked at each other, very strangely.
The men beside them were a little embarrassed,
the Duke twirled his short white moustache, and
Lord Blythe glanced at his wife with some wonder
and curiosity. Both imagined, with the usual short-
sightedness of the male sex, that the women had
taken a sudden fantastic dislike to one another.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 289
"By jove, she's jealous!" thought the Duke, fully
aware that Lady Blythe was occasionally "moved
that way."
"The girl seems frightened of her," was Lord
Blythe's inward comment, knowing that his wife did
not always create a sympathetic atmosphere.
But her ladyship was soon herself again and
laughed quite merrily at her husband's anxious ex-
pression.
"I'm all right really!" she said, with a quick,
almost defiant turn of her head towards him, the
emeralds in her dark hair flashing with a sinister
gleam like lightning on still water. "You must re-
member it's rather overwhelming to be introduced to
a famous author and think of just the right thing to
say at the right moment! Isn't it, Miss Armitage?"
"It is as you feel," replied Innocent, coldly.
Lady Blythe rattled on gaily.
"Do come and talk to me for a few moments! it
will be so good of you! The garden's lovely! shall
we go there? Now, my dear Duke, don't look so
cross, I'll bring her back to you directly!" and she
nodded pleasantly. "You want her, of course!
everybody wants her! such a celebrity!" then, turn-
ing again to Innocent, "Will you come?"
As one in a dream the girl obeyed her inviting
gesture, and they passed out of the room together
through a large open French window to a terraced
garden, dimly illumined in the distance by the glit-
ter of fairy lamps, but for the most part left to the
tempered brilliancy of a misty red moon. Once
away from the crowd, Lady Blythe walked quickly
and impatiently, scarcely looking at the youthful
figure that accompanied her own, like a fair ghost
gliding step for step beside her. At last she stopped ;
they were well away from the house in a quaint bit
of garden shaded with formal fir-trees and clipped
290 INNOCENT
yews, where a fountain dashed up a slender spiral
thread of white spray. A strange sense of fury in
her broke loose; with pale face and cruel, glittering
eyes she turned upon her daughter.
"How dare you!" she half whispered, through her
set teeth "How dare you!"
Innocent drew back a step, and looked at her
steadfastly.
"I do not understand you," she said.
"You do understand! you understand only too
well!" and Lady Blythe put her hand to the pearls
at her throat as though she felt them choking her.
"Oh, I could strike you for your insolence! I wish
I had never sought you out or told you how you
were born! Is this your revenge for the manner of
your birth, that you come to shame me among my
own class my own people "
Innocent's eyes flashed with a fire seldom seen in
their soft depths.
"Shame you?" she echoed. "I? What shame have
I brought you? What shame shall I bring? Had
you owned me as your child I would have made you
proud of me! I would have given you honour,
you abandoned me to strangers, and I have made
honour for myself! Shame is yours and yours only!
it would be mine if I had to acknowledge you as
my mother! you who never had the courage to be
true!" Her young voice thrilled with passion. "I
have won my own way! I am something beyond
and above you! 'your own class your own peo-
ple/ as you call them, are at my feet, and you
you who played with my father's heart and spoilt
his career you have lived to know that I, his de-
serted child, have made his name famous!"
Lady Blythe stared at her like some enraged cat
ready to spring.
"His name his name!" she muttered, fiercely.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 291
"Yes, and how dare you take it? You have no right
to it in law!"
"Wise law, just law!" said the girl, passionately.
"Would you rather I had taken yours? I might
have done so had I known it though I think not, as
I should have been ashamed of any 'maiden' name
you had dishonoured! When you came to Briar
Farm to find me to see me so late, so late! after
long years of desertion I told you it was possible
to make a name; one cannot go nameless through
the world! I have made mine! independently and
honestly in fact" and she smiled, a sad cold smile
"it is an honour for you, my mother, to know me,
your daughter!"
Lady Blythe's face grew ghastly pale in the un-
certain light of the half-veiled moon. She moved
a step and caught the girl's arm with some vio-
lence.
"What do you mean to do?" she asked, in an angry
whisper, "I must know! What are your plans of
vengeance? your campaign of notoriety? your
scheme of self-advertisement? WTiat claim will you
make?"
"None!" and Innocent looked at her fully, with
calm and fearless dignity. "I have no claim upon
you, thank God! I am less to you than a dropped
lamb, lost in a thicket of thorns, is to the sheep that
bore it! That's a rough country simile, I was
brought up on a farm, you know! but it will serve
your case. Think nothing of me, as I think nothing
of you ! What I am, or what I may be to the world,
is my own affair!"
There was a pause. Presently Lady Blythe gave a
kind of shrill hysterical laugh.
"Then, when we meet in society, as we have met
to-night, it will be as comparative strangers?"
"Why, of course! we have always been
292 INNOCENT
strangers," the girl replied, quietly. "No strangers
were ever more strange to each other than we!"
"You mean to keep my secret? and your own?"
"Certainly. Do you suppose I would give my
father's name to slander?"
"Your father! you talk of your father as if he
was worth consideration! he was chiefly to blame
for your position "
"Was he? I am not quite sure of that," said In-
nocent, slowly "I do not know all the circum-
stances. But I have heard that he was a great ar-
tist; and that some woman he loved ruined his life.
And I believe you are that woman!"
Lady Blythe laughed a hard mirthless laugh.
"Believe what you like!" she said "You are an
imaginative little fool ! When you know more of the
world you will find out that men ruin women's lives
as casually as cracking nuts, but they take jolly good
care of their own skins! Pierce Armitage was too
selfish a man to sacrifice his own pleasure and com-
fort for anyone he was glad to get rid of me and
of you! And now now!" She threw up her hands
with an expressive, half-tragic gesture. "Now you
are famous! actually famous! Good heavens!
why, I thought you would stay in that old farm-
house all your life, scrubbing the floors and looking
after the poultry, and perhaps marrying some good-
natured country yokel! Famous! you! with so-
cial London dancing attendance on you! What a
ghastly comedy!" She laughed again. "Come! we
must go back to the house."
They walked side by side the dark full-figured
woman and the fair slight girl the one a mere
ephemeral unit in an exclusively aristocratic and
fashionable "set," the other, the possessor of a sud-
den brilliant fame which was spreading a new light
across the two hemispheres. Not another word was
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 293
exchanged between them, and as they re-entered
the ducal reception-rooms, now more crowded than
ever, Lord Blythe met them.
"I was just going to look for you," he said to his
wife "There are dozens of people waiting to be pre-
sented to Miss Armitage ; the Duchess has asked for
her several times."
Lady Blythe turned to Innocent with a dazzling
smile.
"How guilty I feel!" she exclaimed. "Everybody
wanting to see you, and I selfishly detaining you in
the garden ! It was so good of you to give me a few
minutes! you, the guest of the evening too! Good-
night! in case I don't find you again in this crowd!"
She moved away then, leaving Innocent fairly be-
wildered by her entire coolness and self-possession.
She herself, poor child, moved to the very soul by
the interview she had just gone through, was
trembling with extreme nervousness, and could
hardly conceal her agitation.
"I'm afraid you've caught cold!" said Lord Blythe,
kindly "That will never do! I promised I would
take you to the Duchess as soon as I found you
she has some friends with her who wish to meet you.
Will you come?"
She smiled assent, looking up at him gratefully
and thinking what a handsome old man he was, with
his tall, well-formed figure and fine intellectual face
on which the constant progress of good thoughts had
marked many a pleasant line. Her mother's hus-
band! and she wondered how it happened that such
a woman had been chosen for a wife by such a man !
"They're going to dance in the ball-room directly,"
he continued, as he guided her through the pressing
throng of people. "You will not be without part-
ners! Are you fond of dancing?"
Her face lighted up with the lovely youthful look
294 INNOCENT
that gave her such fascination and sweetness of
expression.
"Yes, I like it very much, though before I came to
London I only knew country dances such as they
dance at harvest-homes ; but of course here, you all
dance so differently! it is only just going round
and round! But it's quite pleasant and rather
amusing."
"You were brought up in the country then?" he
said.
"Yes, entirely. I came to London about two years
ago."
"But I hope you don't think me too inquisitive !
where did you study literature?"
She laughed a little.
"I don't think I studied it at all," she answered,
"I just loved it! There was a small library of very
old books in the farmhouse where I lived, and I read
and re-read these. Then, when I was about sixteen,
it suddenly came into my head that I would try to
write a story myself and I did. Little by little it
grew into a book, and I brought it to London and
finished it here. You know the rest!"
"Like Byron, you awoke one morning to find your-
self famous!" said Lord Blythe, smiling. "You have
no parents living?"
Her cheeks burned with a hot blush as she re-
plied.
"NO/;
"A pity! They would have been very proud of
you. Here is the Duchess!"
And in another moment she was drawn into the
vortex of a brilliant circle surrounding her hostess
men and women of notable standing in politics, art
and letters, to whom the Duchess presented her with
the half kindly, half patronising air of one who feels
that any genius in man or woman is a kind of disease,
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 295
and that the person affected by it must be soothingly
considered as a sort of "freak" or nondescript crea-
ture, like a white crow or a red starling.
"These abnormal people are so interesting!" she
was wont to say. "These prodigies and things! I
love them ! They're often quite ugly and have rude
manners Beethoven used to eat with his fingers I
believe; wasn't it wonderful of him! Such a relief
from the conventional way! When I was quite a
girl I used to adore a man in Paris who played the
'cello divinely a perfect marvel! but he wouldn't
comb his hair or blow his nose properly and it
wasn't very nice! not that it mattered much, he
was such a wonderful artist! Oh yes, I know! it
wouldn't have lessened his genius to have wiped his
nose with a handkerchief instead of ! well!
perhaps we'd better not mention it ! " And she would
laugh charmingly and again murmur, "These dear
abnormal people!"
With Innocent, however, she was somewhat put
off her usual line of conduct ; the girl was too grace-
ful and easy-mannered to be called "abnormal" or
eccentric; she was perfectly modest, simple and un-
affected, and the Duchess was a trifle disappointed
that she was not ill-dressed, frowsy, frumpish and
blue-spectacled.
"She's so young too!" thought her Grace, half
crossly "Almost a child! and not in the least
'bookish.' It seems quite absurd that such a baby-
looking creature should be actually a genius, and
famous at twenty! Simply amazing!"
And she watched the little "lion" or lioness of the
evening with keen interest and curiosity, whimsically
vexed that it did not roar, snort, or make itself as
noticeable as certain other animals of the literary
habitat whom she had occasionally entertained. Just
then a mirthful, mellow voice spoke close beside her.
296 INNOCENT
"Where is the new Corinne? The Sappho of the
Leucadian rock of London? Has she met her
Phaon?"
"How. late you are, Amadis!" and the Duchess
smiled captivatingly as she extended her hand to
Jocelyn, who gallantly stooped and kissed the per-
fectly fitting glove which covered it. "If you mean
Miss Armitage, she is just over there talking to two
old fogies. I think they're Cabinet ministers they
look it ! She's quite the success of the evening, and
pretty, don't you think?"
Jocelyn looked, and saw the small fair head rising
like a golden flower from sea-blue draperies; he
smiled enigmatically.
"Not exactly," he answered, "But spirituelle she
has what some painters might call an imaginative
head she could pose very well for St. Dorothy. I
can quite realise her preferring the executioner's axe
to the embraces of Theophilus."
The Duchess gave him a swift glance and touched
his arm with the edge of her fan.
"Are you going to make love to her?" she asked.
"You make love to every woman but most women
understand your sort of love-making "
"Do they?" and his blue eyes flashed amusement.
"And what do they think of it?"
"They laugh at it!" she answered, calmly. "But
that clever child would not laugh she would take
it au grand serieux."
He passed his hand carelessly through the rough
dark hair which gave his ruggedly handsome features
a singular softness and charm.
"Would she? My dear Duchess, nobody takes
anything 'au grand serieux' nowadays. We grin
through every scene of life, and we don't know and
don't care whether it's comedy or tragedy we're grin-
ning at! It doesn't do to be serious. I never am.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 297
'Life is real, life is earnest' was the line of conduct
practised by my French ancestors; they cut up all
their enemies with long swords, and then sat down
to wild boar roasted whole for dinner. That was
real life, earnest life! We in our day don't cut up
our enemies with long swords we cut them up in
the daily press. It's so much easier!"
"How you love to hear yourself talk!" commented
the Duchess. "I let you do it but I know you don't
mean half you say!"
"You think not? Well, I'm going to join the court
of Corinne she's not the usual type of Corinne I
fancy she has a heart "
"And you want to steal it if you can, of course!"
and the Duchess laughed. "Men always long
for what they haven't got, and tire of what they
have!"
"True, Queen! We are made so! Blame, not
us, but the Creator of the poor world-mannikins!"
He moved away and was soon beside Innocent,
who blushed into a pretty rose at sight of him.
"I thought you were never coming!" she said,
shyly. "I'm so glad you are here!"
He looked at her with an admiring softness in his
eyes.
"May I have the first dance?" he said. "I
timed myself to gain the privilege."
She gave him her dance programme where no name
was yet inscribed. He took it and scribbled his
name down several times, then handed it back to
her. Several of the younger men in the group which
had gathered about her laughed and remonstrated.
"Give somebody else a chance, Miss Armitage!"
She looked round upon them, smiling.
"But of course! Mr. Amadis de Jocelyn has not
taken all?"
They laughed again.
298 INNOCENT
"His name dominates your programme, any-
how!"
Her eyes shone softly.
"It is a beautiful name!" she said.
"Granted! But show a little mercy to the un-
beautiful names!" said one man near her. "My
name, for instance, is Smith can you tolerate it?"
She gave a light gesture of protest.
"You play with me!" she said "Of course! You
will find a dance, Mr. Smith! and I will dance it
with you!"
They were all now ready for fun, and taking her
programme handed it round amongst themselves and
soon filled it. When it came back to her she looked
at it, amazed.
"But I shall never dance all these!" she exclaimed.
"No, you will sit out some of them," said Jocelyn,
coolly "With me!"
The ball-room doors were just then thrown in-
vitingly open and entrancing strains of rhythmical
music came swinging and ringing in sweet cadence
on the ears. He passed his arm round her waist.
"We'll begin the revelry!" he said, and in an-
other moment she felt herself floating deliciously, as
it were, in his arms her little feet flying over the
polished floor, his hand warmly clasping her slim
soft body and her heart fluttered wildly like the
beating wings of a snared bird as she fell into the
mystic web woven by the strange and pitiless loom
of destiny. The threads were already tangling about
her but she made no effort to escape. She was
happy in her dream; she imagined that her Ideal
had been found in the Real.
CHAPTER IV
THE first waltz over, Jocelyn led his partner out of
the ball-room.
"Come into the garden," he said. "It's quite a
real garden for London and I know every inch of
it. We'll find a quiet corner and sit down and rest."
She answered nothing she was flushed, and
breathing quickly from the excitement of the dance,
and he paused on his way to pick up a light wrap
he found on one of the sofas, and put it round her
shoulders.
"You mustn't catch a chill," he went on. "But
it's not a cold night in fact it's very close and sul-
try almost like thunder. A little air will be good
for us."
They went together, pacing along slowly she
meanwhile thinking of her previous walk in that
same garden! what would he, Amadis de Jocelyn,
say of it and of her "mother" if he knew ! He looked
at her sideways now and then, curiously moved by
mingled pity, admiration and desire, the cruelty
latent in every man made him long to awaken the
first spark of passion in that maidenly soul, and
with the full consciousness of a powerful personality,
he was perfectly aware that he could do so if he
chose. But he waited, playing with the fire of his
own inclinations, and talking lightly and charmingly
of things which he knew would interest her suf-
ficiently to make her, in her turn, talk to him nat-
urally and candidly, thereby displaying more or less
of her disposition and temperament. With every
299
300 INNOCENT
word she spoke he found her more and more fas-
cinating she had a quaint directness of speech
which was extremely refreshing after the half-veiled
subtleties conveyed in the often dubious conversa-
tion of the women he was accustomed to meet in
society while there was no doubt she was endowed
with extraordinary intellectual grasp and capacity.
Her knowledge of things artistic and literary might,
perhaps, have been termed archaic, but it was based
upon the principles which are good and true for all
time and as she told him quite simply and unaf-
fectedly of her studies by herself among the old
books which had belonged to the "Sieur Amadis" of
Briar Farm, he was both touched and interested.
"So you made quite a friend of the Sieur Ama-
dis!" he said. "He was your teacher and guide!
I'm jealous of him!"
She laughed softly. "He was a spirit," she said
"You are a man."
"Well, his spirit has had a good innings with you!"
and, taking her hand, he drew it within his arm
"I bear his name, and it's tune I came in some-
where!"
She laughed again, a trifle nervously.
"You think so? But you do come in! You are
here with me now!"
He bent his eyes upon her with an ardour he did
not attempt to conceal, and her heart leaped within
her a warmth like fire ran swiftly through her
veins. He heard her sigh, he saw her tremble be-
neath his gaze. There was an elf-like fascination
about her child-like face and figure as she moved
glidingly beside him a "belle dame sans merci"
charm which roused the strongly amorous side of
his nature. He quickened his steps a little as he led
her down a sloping path, shut in on either side by
tall trees, where there was a seat placed invitingly
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 301
in the deepest shadow and where the dim uplifted
moon cast but the faintest glimmer, just sufficiently
to make the darkness visible.
"Shall we stay here a little while?" he said, in a
low tone.
She made no reply. Something vaguely sweet and
irresistible overpowered her, she was barely con-
scious of herself, or of anything, save that "Amadis
de Jocelyn" was beside her. She had lived so long
in her dream of the old French knight, whose writ-
ten thoughts and confessions had influenced her im-
agination and swayed her mind since childhood,
that she could not detach herself from the idealistic
conception she had formed of his character, and to
her the sixteenth-century "Amadis" had become em-
bodied in this modern man of brilliant but erratic
genius, who, if the truth were told, had nothing
idealistic about him but his art, which in itself was
more the outcome of emotionalism than conviction.
He drew her gently down beside him, feeling her
quiver like a leaf touched by the wind, and his
own heart began to beat with a pleasurable thrill.
The silence around them seemed waiting for speech,
but none came. It was one of those tense moments
on which sometimes hangs the happiness or the mis-
ery of a lifetime a stray thread from the web of
Chance, which may be woven into a smooth pattern
or knotted into a cruel tangle, a freakish circum-
stance in which the human beings most concerned
are helplessly involved without any conscious pre-
monition of impending fate. Suddenly, yielding to
a passionate impulse, he caught her close in his arms
and kissed her.
"Forgive me!" he whispered "I could not help
it!"
She put him gently back from her with two little
hands that caressed rather than repulsed him, and
302 INNOCENT
gazed at him with startled, tender eyes in which a
new and wonderful radiance shone, while he in self-
confident audacity still held her in his embrace.
"You are not angry?" he went on, in quick, soft
accents. "No! Why should you be? Why should
not love come to you as to other women! Don't
analyse! don't speak! There is nothing to be said
we know all!"
Silently she clung to him, yielding more and more
to the sensation of exquisite joy that poured through
her whole being like sunlight her heart beat with
new and keener life, the warm kindling blood
burned her cheeks like the breath of a hot wind
and her whole soul rose to meet and greet what she
in her poor credulousness welcomed as the crown
and glory of existence love! Love was hers, she
though t-J-at last! she knew the great secret, the
long delight that death itself could not destroy,
her ideal of romance was realised, and Amadis de
Jocelyn, the brave, the true, the chivalrous, the
strong, was her very own ! Enchanted with the ease
of his conquest, he played with her pretty hair as
with a bird's wing, and held her against his heart,
sensuously gratified to feel her soft breast heaving
with its pent-up emotion, and to hear her murmured
words of love confessed.
"How I have wished and prayed that you might
love me!" she said, raising her dewy eyes to his in
the darkness. "Is it good when God grants one's
prayers? I am almost afraid! My Amadis! It is
a dream come true!"
He was amused at her fidelity to the romance
which surrounded his name.
"Dear child, I am not a 'knight of old' don't
think it!" he said. "You mustn't run away with
that idea and make me a kind of sixteenth-century
sentimentalist. I couldn't live up to it!"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 303
"You are more than a knight of old," she answered,
proudly "You are a great genius!"
He was embarrassed by her simple praise.
"No," he answered "Not even that sweet soul
as you are! not even that! You think I am but
you do not know. You are a clever, imaginative lit-
tle girl and I love to hear you praise me but "
Her lips touched his shyly and sweetly.
"No 'buts ! ' " she said, "I shall always stop your
mouth if you put a 'but' against any work you do!"
"In that way?" he asked, smiling.
"Yes! In that way."
"Then I shall put a 'but' to everything!" he
declared.
They laughed together like children.
"Where is Miss Leigh all this while?" he queried.
She started, awaking suddenly to conventions and
commonplaces.
"Poor little godmother! She must be wondering
where I am! But I did not leave her, she left me
when the Duke took charge of me I lost sight of
her then."
"Well, we must go and find her now" and Joce-
lyn again folded his arms closely round the dainty,
elf-like figure in its moonlight-blue draperies. "In-
nocent, look at me!"
She lifted her eyes, and as she met his, glowing
with the fervent fire of a new passion, her cheeks
grew hot and she was thankful for the darkness. His
lips closed on hers in a long kiss.
"This is our secret!" he said "You must not
speak of it to anyone."
"How could I speak of it?" she asked, wonder-
ingly.
He let her go from his embrace, and taking her
hand began to walk slowly with her towards the
house.
304 INNOCENT
"You might do so," he continued "And it
would not be wise! neither for you in your career,
nor for me in mine. You are famous, your name
is being talked of everywhere you must be very
careful. No one must know we are lovers."
She thrilled at the word "lovers," and her hand
trembled in his.
"No one shall know," she said.
"Not even Miss Leigh," he insisted.
"If I say 'no one' of course I mean 'no one/ " she
answered, gently "not even Miss Leigh."
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, re-
lieved by this assurance. He wanted his little
"amour" to go on without suspicion or interference,
and he felt instinctively that if this girl made any
sort of a promise she would fulfil it.
"You can keep a secret then?" he said, playfully
"Unlike most women!"
She looked up at him, smiling.
"Do men keep secrets better?" she asked. "I think
not! Will you, for instance, keep mine?"
"Yours?" And for a moment he was puzzled,
being a man who thought chiefly of himself and his
own pleasure for the moment. "What is your
secret?"
She laughed. "Oh, 'Sieur Amadis'! You pre-
tend not to know! Is it not the same as yours?
You must not tell anybody that I I "
He understood and pressed hard the little hand
he held.
"That you well? Go on! I must not tell
anybody what?"
"That I love you!" she said, in a tone so grave
and sweet and angelically tender, that for a second
he was smitten with a sudden sense of shame.
Was it right to steal all this unspoilt treasure of
love from a heart so warm and susceptible? Was it
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 305
fair to enter such an ivory castle of dreams and break
open all the "magic casements opening on the foam,
Of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn"? He was
silent, having no response to give to the simple
ardour of her utterance. What he felt for her was
what all men feel for each woman who in turn at-
tracts their wandering fancies the desire of con-
quest and possession. He was moved to this desire
by the irritating fact that this girl had startled an
apathetic public on both sides of the Atlantic by
the display of her genius in the short space of two
years whereas he had been more than fifteen years
intermittently at work without securing any such
fame. To throw the lasso of Love round the flying
Pegasus on which she rode so lightly and securely,
would be an excitement and amusement which he
was not inclined to forgo a triumph worth attain-
ing. But love such as she imagined love to be, was
not in his nature he conceived of it merely as a
powerful physical attraction which exerted its influ-
ence between two persons of opposite sexes and
lasted for a certain time then waned and wore off
and he recognised marriage as a legal device to safe-
guard a woman when the inevitable indifference and
coldness of her mate set in, making him no longer
a lover, but a household companion of habit and
circumstance, lawfully bound to pay for the edu-
cation of children and the necessary expenses of
living. In his inmost consciousness he knew very
well that Innocent was not of the ordinary feminine
mould she had visions of the high and unattain-
able, and her ideals of life were of that pure and
transcendental quality which belongs to finer ele-
ments unseen. The carnal mind can never compre-
hend spirituality, nevertheless, Jocelyn was a man
cultured and clever enough to feel that though he
himself could not enter, and did not even care to
306 INNOCENT
enter the uplifted spheres of thought, this strange
child with a gift of the gods in her brain, already
dwelt in them, serenely unconscious of any lower
plane. And she loved him! and he would, on that
ground of love, teach her many things she had never
known he would widen her outlook, warm her
senses increase her perceptions train her like a
wild rose on the iron trellis of his experience while
thus to instruct an unworldly soul in worldliness
would be for him an interesting and pleasurable
pastime.
"And I can make her happy" was his additional
thought "in the only way a woman is ever happy
for a little while!""
All this ran through his mind as he held her hand
a moment longer, till the convincing music of the
band and the brilliant lights of the house warned
them to break away from each other.
"We had better go straight to the ball-room and
dance in," he said. "No one will have missed us
long. We've only been absent about a quarter of
an hour."
"So much in such a little time!" she said, softly.
He smiled, answering the adoring look of her eyes
with his own amorous glance, and in another few
seconds they were part of the brilliant whirl of
dancers now crowding the ball-room and swinging
round in a blaze of colour and beauty to the some-
what hackneyed strains of the "Friihlings Reigen."
And as they floated and flew, the delight of their
attractiveness to each other drew them closer to-
gether till the sense of separateness seemed lost and
whelmed in a magnetic force of mutual comprehen-
sion.
When this waltz was finished she was claimed by
many more partners, and danced till she was weary,
then, between two "extras," she went in search of
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 307
Miss Leigh, whom she found sitting patiently in
one of the great drawing-rooms, looking somewhat
pale and tired.
"Oh, my godmother!" she exclaimed, running up
to her. "I had forgotten how late it is getting!"
Miss Lavinia smiled cheerfully.
"Never mind, child!" she said. "You are young
and ought to enjoy yourself. I am old, and hardly
fit for these late assemblies and how very late they
are too! When I was a girl we never stayed be-
yond midnight "
"And is it midnight now?" asked Innocent,
amazed, turning to her partner, a young scion of
the aristocracy, who looked as if he had not been to
bed for a week.
He smiled simperingly, and glanced at his watch.
"It's nearly two o'clock," he said. "In fact it's to-
morrow morning!"
Just then Jocelyn came up.
"Are you going?" he inquired. "Well, perhaps it's
time! May I see you to your carriage?"
Miss Leigh gratefully accepted this suggestion
and Innocent, smiling her "good-night" to partners
whom she had disappointed, walked with her through
the long vista of rooms, Jocelyn leading the way.
They> soon ran the gauntlet of the ladies' cloak-room
and the waiting mob of footmen and chauffeurs that
lined the long passage leading to the entrance-hall,
and Jocelyn, going out into the street succeeded in
finding their modest little hired motor-brougham and
assisting them into it.
"Good-night, Miss Leigh!" he said, leaning on
the door of the vehicle and smiling at them through
the open window "Good-night, Miss Armitage! I
hope you are not very tired?"
"I am not tired at all!" she answered, with a thrill
308 INNOCENT
of joy in her voice like the note of a sweet bird. "I
have been so very happy!"
He smiled. His face was pale and looked un-
usually handsome, she stretched one little hand out
to him.
"Good-night, 'Sieur AmadisP '
He bent down and kissed it.
"Good-night!"
The motor began to move another moment, and
they were off. Innocent sank back in the brougham
with a sigh.
"You are tired, child! you must be!" said Miss
Leigh.
"No, godmother mine! That sigh was one of
pleasure. It has been a most wonderful evening!
wonderful!"
"It was certainly very brilliant," agreed Miss
Leigh. "And I'm glad you were made so much of,
my dear! That was as it ought to be. Lord Blythe
told me he had seldom met so charming a girl!"
Innocent sat up suddenly. "Lord Blythe? Do
you know him?"
"No, I cannot say I really know him," replied
Miss Leigh. "I've met him several times and his
wife too there was some scandal about her years
and years ago before she was married nobody ever
knew exactly what it was, and her people hushed
it up. I daresay it wasn't very much. Anyhow
Lord Blythe married her and he's a very fine man
with a great position. I thought I saw you talking
to Lady Blythe?"
"Yes" Innocent spoke almost mechanically "I
had a few minutes' conversation with her."
"She's very handsome," went on Miss Leigh.
"She used to be quite beautiful. A pity she has no
children."
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 309
Innocent was silent. The motor-brougham glided
along.
"You and Mr. Jocelyn seem to get on very well
together/' observed the old lady, presently. "He
is a very 'taking' man but I wonder if he is quite
sincere?"
Innocent's colour rose, fortunately the interior of
the brougham was too dark for her face to be seen.
"Why should he not be?" she asked "Surely with
his great art, he would be more sincere than most
men?"
"Well, I hope so!" and Miss Leigh's voice was a
little tremulous; "But artists are very impression-
able, and live so much in a world of their own that
I sometimes doubt whether they have much under-
standing or sympathy with the world of other peo-
ple! Even Pierce Armitage who was very dear to
me ran away with impressions like a child with
toys. He would adore a person one day and hate
him, or her, the next ! " and she laughed softly and
compassionately "He would indeed, poor fellow!
He was rather like Shelley in his likes and dislikes
you've read all about your Shelley of course?"
"Indeed I have!" the girl answered, "A glorious
poet ! but he must have been difficult to live with !"
"Difficult, if not impossible!" and the gentle old
lady took her hand and held it in a kind, motherly
clasp "You are a genius yourself but you are a
human little creature, not above the sweet and sim-
ple ways of life, some of the poets and artists were
and are in-human! Now Mr. Jocelyn "
"He is human!" said Innocent, quickly "I'm sure
of that!"
"You are sure? Well, dear, you like him very
much and you have made a friend of him, which is
quite natural considering the long association you
have had with his name such a curious and roman-
310 INNOCENT
tic coincidence! but I hope he won't disappoint
you."
Innocent laughed, happily.
"Don't be afraid, you dear little godmother!" she
said "I don't expect anything of him, so no disap-
pointment is possible! Here we are!"
The brougham stopped and they alighted. Open-
ing the house-door with a latch-key they entered,
and pausing one moment in the drawing-room, where
the lights had been left burning for their return, Miss
Leigh took Innocent tenderly by the arm and pointed
to the portrait on the harpsichord.
"There was a true genius!" she said "He might
have been the greatest artist in England to-day if
he had not let his impressions and prejudices over-
master his judgment. You know for I have told
you my story that he loved me, or thought he did
and I loved him and knew I did ! There was the
difference between us! He tired of me all artists
tire of the one face they want dozens! and he lost
his head over some woman whose name I never
knew. The result must have been fatal to his career,
for it stopped short just when he was succeeding;
for me, it only left me resolved to be true to his
memory till the end. But, my child, it's a hard lot
to be alone all one's days, with only the remem-
brance of a past love to keep one's heart from grow-
ing cold!"
There was a little sob in her voice, Innocent,
touched to the quick, kissed her tenderly.
"Why do you talk like this so sadly to-night?"
she asked "Has something reminded you of of
him?" And she glanced half nervously towards the
portrait.
"Yes," answered the old lady, simply "Something
has reminded me very much of him ! Good-night,
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 311
dear little child! Keep your beautiful dreams and
ideals as long as you can! Sleep well!"
She turned off the lights, and they went upstairs
together to their several rooms.
Once alone, Innocent flung off her dainty ball at-
tire, released her bright hair from the pins that held
it bound in rippling waves about her shapely head,
and slipping on a loose white wrapper sat down to
think. She had to realise the unpleasing fact that
against her own wish and will she had become in-
volved in mysteries, secrets which she dared not,
for the sake of others, betray. Her parentage could
not be divulged, because her father was Pierce Armi-
tage, the worshipped memory of Miss Leigh's heart,
while her mother, Lady Blythe, occupied a high so-
cial position which must not be assailed. And now
now, Amadis de Jocelyn was her lover! yet no one
must know, because he did not wish it. For some
cause or other which she could not determine, he
insisted on secrecy. So she was meshed in nets of
others' weaving, and could not take a step to dis-
entangle herself and stand clear. Of her own accord
she would have been frank and open as the daylight,
but from the first, a froward fate appeared to have
taken delight in surrounding her with deceptions en-
forced by the sins of others. Her face burned as she
thought of Jocelyn's passionate kisses she must
hide all that joy! it had already become almost a
guilty secret. He was the first man that had ever
kissed her since her "Dad" died, the first that had
ever kissed her as a lover. Her mind flew suddenly
and capriciously back to Briar Farm to Robin Clif-
ford who had longed to kiss her, and yet had re-
fused to do so unless she could have loved him. She
had never loved him no! and yet the thought
of him just now gave her a thrill of remorseful ten-
derness. She knew in herself at last what love could
312 INNOCENT
mean, and with that knowledge she realised what
Robin must have suffered.
"To love without return without hope!" she
mused "Oh, it would be torture! to me, death!
Poor Robin!"
Poor Robin, indeed! He would not have dared
to caress her with the wild and tender audacity of
Amadis de Jocelyn!
"My love!" she whispered to the silence. "My
love!" she repeated, as she knelt down to say her
prayers, sending the adored and idealised name up
on vibrations of light to the throne of the Most High,
and "My love!" were the last words she murmured
as she nestled into her little bed, her fair head on its
white pillow looking like the head of one of Botti-
celli's angels. Her own success, her celebrity as a
genius in literature, her dreams of fame these now
were all as naught! less than the clouds of a night
or the mists of a morning there was nothing for
her in earth or heaven save "My love!"
CHAPTER V
LORD BLYTHE was sitting alone in his library. He
was accustomed to sit alone, and rather liked it. It
was the evening after that of the Duchess of Dean-
shire's reception ; his wife had gone to another similar
"crush," but had graciously excused his attendance,
for which he was honestly grateful. He was old
enough, at sixty-eight, to appreciate the luxury of
peace and quietness, he had put on an old lounge
coat and an easy pair of slippers, and was thoroughly
enjoying himself in a comfortable arm-chair with a
book and a cigar. The book was by "Ena Armitage"
the cigar, one of a choice brand known chiefly to
fastidious connoisseurs of tobacco. The book, how-
ever, was a powerful rival to the charm of the fra-
grant Havana for every now and again he allowed
the cigar to die out and had to re-light it, owing to
his fascinated absorption in the volume he held. He
was an exceedingly clever man deeply versed in
literature and languages, and in his younger days
had been a great student, he had read nearly every
book of note, and was as familiar with the greatest
authors as with his greatest friends, so that he was
well fitted to judge without prejudice the merits of
any new aspirant to literary fame. But he was wholly
unprepared for the power and the daring genius
which stamped itself on every page of the new
writer's work, he almost forgot, while reading,
whether it was man or woman who had given such
a, production to the world, so impressed was he by
313
314 INNOCENT
the masterly treatment of a simple subject made
beautiful by a scholarly and incisive style. It was
literature of the highest kind, and realising this
with every sentence he perused, it was with a shock
of surprise that he remembered the personality of
the author the unobtrusive girl who had been the
"show animal" at Her Grace of Deanshire's recep-
tion and dance.
"Positively, I can scarcely believe it!" he ex-
claimed sotto-voce "That child I met . last night
actually wrote this amazing piece of work! It's
almost incredible! A nice child too, simple and
perfectly natural, nothing of the blue-stocking
about her. Well, well! What a career she'll make!
what a name! that is, if she takes care of herself
and doesn't fall in love, which she's sure to do!
That's the worst of women God occasionally gives
them brains, but they've scarcely begun to use them
when heart and sentiment step in and overthrow all
reason. Now, we men "
He paused, thinking. There had been a time in
his life long ago, when he was very young when
heart and sentiment had very nearly overthrown
reason in his own case and sometimes he was
inclined to regret that such overthrow had been
averted.
"For the moment it is perhaps worth everything
else!" he mused "But for the moment only! The
ecstasy does not last."
His cigar had gone out again, and he re-lit it. The
clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve with a silvery
clang, and almost at the same instant he heard the
rustle of a silk gown and a light footstep, the door
opened, and his wife appeared.
"Are you busy?" she enquired "May I come in?"
He rose, with the stately old-fashioned courtesy
habitual to him.
"By all means come in!" he said "You have
returned early?"
"Yes." She loosened her rich evening cloak, lined
with ermine, and let it fall on the back of the chair
in which she seated herself "It was a boresome af-
fair, there were recitations and music which I hate
so I came away. You are reading?"
"Not now" and he closed the volume on the table
beside him "But I have been reading that amaz-
ing book by the young girl we met at the Deans-hires'
last night Ena Armitage. It's really a fine piece
of work."
She was silent.
"You didn't take to her, I'm afraid?" he went on
"Yet she seemed a charming, modest little per-
son. Perhaps she was not quite what you ex-
pected?"
Lady Ely the gave a sudden harsh laugh.
"You are right! She certainly was not what I
expected! Is the door well shut?"
Surprised at her look and manner, he went to see.
"The door is quite closed," he said, rather stiffly.
"One would think we were talking secrets and we
never do!"
"No!" she rejoined, looking at him curiously
"We never do. We are model husband and wife,
having nothing to conceal!"
He took up his cigar which he had laid down for a
minute, and with careful minuteness flicked off the
ash.
"You have something to tell me," he remarked,
quietly "Pray go on, and don't let me interrupt
you. Do you object to my smoking?"
"Not in the least."
He stood with his back to the fireplace, a tall,
stately figure of a man, and looked at her expect-
antly, she meanwhile reclined in a cushioned chair
316 INNOCENT
with the folds of her ermine falling about her, like
a queen of languorous luxury.
"I suppose/' she began "hardly anything in the
social life of our day would very much surprise or
shock you ?"
"Very little, certainly!" he answered, smiling
coldly "I have lived a long tune, and am not easily
surprised!"
"Not even if it concerned some one you know?"
His fine open brow knitted itself in a momentary
line of puzzled consideration.
"Some one I know?" he repeated "Well, I
should certainly be very sorry to hear anything of
a scandalous nature connected with the girl we saw
last night she looked too young and too inno-
cent "
"Innocent oh yes!" and Lady Blythe again
laughed that harsh laugh of suppressed hysterical
excitement "She is innocent enough!"
"Pardon! I thought you were about to speak of
her, as you said she was not what you expected "
He paused, startled by the haggard and desperate
expression of her face.
"Richard," she said "You are a good man, and
you hold very strong opinions about truth and hon-
our and all that sort of thing. I don't believe you
could ever understand badness real, downright
badness could you?"
"Badness? ... in that child?" he exclaimed.
She gave an impatient, angry gesture.
"Dear me, you are perfectly obsessed by 'that
child,' as you call her!" she answered "You had
better know the truth then at once, 'that child' is
my daughter!"
"Your daughter? your your "
The words died on his lips he staggered slightly
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 317
as though under a sudden physical blow, and gripped
the mantelpiece behind him with one hand.
"Good God!" he half whispered "What do you
mean? you have had no children "
"Not by you, no!" she said, with a flash of
scorn "Not in marriage, that church-and-law form
of union! but by love and passion yes! Stop!
do not look at me like that! I have not been false
to you I have not betrayed you! Your honour has
been safe with me! It was before I met you that
this thing happened."
He stood rigid and very pale.
"Before you met me?"
"Yes. I was a silly, romantic, headstrong girl,
my parents were compelled to go abroad, and I was
left in the charge of one of my mother's society
friends-ya thoroughly worldly, unprincipled woman
whose life was made up of intrigue and gambling.
And I ran away with a man Pierce Armitage "
"Pierce Armitage!"
The name broke from him like a cry of agony.
"Yes Pierce Armitage. Did you know him?"
He looked at her with eyes in which there was a
strange horror.
"Know him? He was my best friend!"
She shrugged her shoulders, and a slight weary
smile parted her lips.
"Well, you never told me, I have never heard
you mention his name. But the world is a small
place! and when I was a girl he was beginning to
be known by a good many people. Anyhow, he
threw up everything in the way of his art and work,
and ran away with me. I went quite willingly I
took a maid whom we bribed, we pretended we were
married, and we had a charming time together a
time of real romance, till he began to get tired and
want change all men are like that! Then he be-
318 INNOCENT
came a bore with a bad temper. He certainly be-
haved very well when he knew the child was coming,
and offered to marry me in real earnest but I re-
fused."
"You refused!" Lord Blythe echoed the words in
a kind of stupefied wonderment.
"Of course I did. He was quite poor and I
should have been miserable running about the world
with a man who depended on art for a living. Be-
sides he was ceasing to be a lover and as a husband
he would have been insupportable. We managed
everything very well my own people were all in
India and my mother's friend, if she guessed my
affair, said nothing about it, wisely enough for her
own sake! so that when my tune came I was able
to go away on an easy pretext and get it all over
secretly. Pierce came and stayed in a hotel close
at hand he was rather in a fright lest I should die!
it would have been such an awkward business for
him! however, all went well, and when I had quite
recovered he took the child away from me, and left
it at an old farmhouse he had once made a drawing
of, saying he would call back for it as if it were a
parcel!" She laughed lightly. "He wrote and told
me what he had done and gave me the address of
the farm then he went abroad, and I never heard
of him again "
"He died," interposed Lord Blythe, slowly "He
died alone and very poor "
"So I was told," she rejoined, indifferently "Oh
yes ! I see you look at me as if you thought I had no
heart! Perhaps I have not, I used to have some-
thing like one, your friend Armitage killed it in me.
Anyhow, I knew the child had been adopted by the
farm people as their own, and I took no further
trouble. My parents came home from India to in-
herit an unexpected fortune, and they took me
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 319
about with them a great deal they were never told
of my romantic escapade! then I met you and
you married me."
A sigh broke from him, but he said nothing.
"You are sorry you did, I suppose!" she went on
in a quick, reckless way "Anyhow, I tried to do my
duty. When I heard by chance that the old farmer
who had taken care of the child was dead, I made
up my mind to go and see what she was like. I
found her, and offered to adopt her but she
wouldn't hear of it so I let her be."
Lord Blythe moved a little from his statuesque
attitude of attention.
"You told her you were her mother?"
"I did."
"And offered to 'adopt' your own child?"
She gave an airy gesture.
"It was the only thing to do! One cannot make
a social scandal."
"And she refused?"
"She refused."
"I admire her for it," said Lord Blythe, calmly.
She shot an angry glance at him. He went on in
cold, deliberate accents.
"You were unprepared for the strange compensa-
tion you have received? the sudden fame of your
deserted daughter?"
Her hands clasped and ' unclasped themselves
nervously.
"I knew nothing of it! Armitage is not an un-
common name, and I did not connect it with her.
She has no right to wear it."
"If her father were alive he would be proud that
she wears it! moreover he would give her the right
to wear it, and would make it legal," said Lord
Blythe sternly "Out of old memory I can say that
for him ! You recognised each other at once, I sup-
320 INNOCENT
pose, when I presented her to you at the Duchess's
reception?"
"Of course we did!" retorted his wife "You your-
self saw that I was rather taken aback, it was diffi-
cult to conceal our mutual astonishment "
"It must have been ! " and a thin ironic smile hov-
ered on his lips "And you carried it off well! But
the poor child! what an ordeal for her! You
can hardly have felt it so keenly, being seasoned to
hypocrisy for so many years!"
Her eyes flashed up at him indignantly. He raised
his hand with a warning gesture.
"Permit me to speak, Maude! You can scarcely
wonder that I am well! a little shaken and be-
wildered by the confession you have made, the
secret you have after years of marriage suddenly
divulged. You suggested at the beginning of this
interview that perhaps there was nothing in the
social life of our day that would very much shock or
surprise me and I answered you that I was not
easily surprised but I was thinking of others,
it did not occur to me that that my own wife "
he paused, steadying his voice, then continued
"that my own wife's honour was involved in the
matter " he paused again. "Sentiment is of
course out of place nobody is supposed to feel any-
thing nowadays or to suffer or to break one's
heart, as the phrase goes, that would be considered
abnormal, or bad form, but I had the idea a fool-
ish one, no doubt! that though you may not have
married me for love on your own part, you did so
because you recognised the love, the truth the
admiration and respect on mine. I was at any rate
happy in believing you did! I never dreamed you
married me for the sake of convenience! to kill the
memory of a scandal, and establish a safe posi-
tion "
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 321
She moved restlessly and gathered her ermine
cloak about her as though to rise and go.
"One moment!" he went on "After what you
have told me I hope you see clearly that it is im-
possible we can live together under the same roof
again. If you could endure it, 7 could not!"
She sprang up, pale and excited.
"What? You mean to make trouble? I, who have
kept my own counsel all these years, am to be dis-
graced because I have at last confided in you?
You will scandalise society you will separate from
me "
She stopped, half choked by a rising paroxysm of
rage.
He looked at her as he might have looked at some
small angry animal.
"I shall make no trouble," he answered, quietly
"and I shall not scandalise society. But I cannot
live with you. I will go away at once on some con-
venient excuse abroad anywhere and you can
say whatever you please of my prolonged absence.
If I could be of any use or protection to the girl I
saw last night the daughter of my friend Pierce
Armitage I would stay, but circumstances render
any such service from me impossible. Besides, she
needs no one to assist her she has made a position
for herself a position more enviable than yours or
mine. You have that to think about by way of
consolation? or reproach?"
She stood drawn up to her full height, looking at
him.
"You cannot forgive me, then?" she said.
He shuddered.
"Forgive you! Is there a man who could forgive
twenty years of deliberate deception from the wife
he thought the soul of honour? Maude, Maude!
We live in lax times truly, when men and women
322 INNOCENT
laugh at principle and good faith, and deal with each
other less honestly than the beasts of the field, but
for me there is a limit! a limit you have passed!
I think I could pardon your wrong to me more read-
ily than I can pardon your callous desertion of the
child you brought into the world your lack of
womanliness motherliness ! your deliberate re-
fusal to give Pierce Armitage the chance of righting
the wrong he had committed in a headstrong, heart-
strong rush of thoughtless passion! he would have
righted it, I know, and been a loyal husband to you,
and a good father to his child. For whatever his
faults were he was neither callous nor brutal. You
prevented him from doing this, you were tired of
him your so-called 'love' for him was a mere selfish
caprice of the moment and you preferred deceit
and a rich marriage to the simple duty of a woman !
Well! you may find excuses for yourself, I cannot
find them for you! I could not remain by your side
as a husband and run the risk of coming constantly
in contact, as we did last night, with that innocent
girl, placed as she is, in a situation of so much diffi-
culty, by the sins of her parents her mother, my
wife! her father, my dead friend! The position is,
and would be untenable!"
Still she stood, looking at him.
"Have you done?" she asked.
He met her fixed gaze, coldly.
"I have. I have said all I wish to say. So far
as I am concerned the incident is closed. I will only
bid you good-night and farewell!"
"Good-night and farewell!" she repeated, with
a mocking drawl, then she suddenly burst into a
fit of shrill laughter. "Oh dear, oh dear!" she cried,
between little screams of hysterical mirth "You are
so very funny, you know! Like what's-his-name?
Marius in the ruins of Carthage! or one of those
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 323
antique classical bores with their household gods
broken around them ! You you ought to have lived
in their days! you are so terribly behind the times!"
She laughed recklessly again. "We don't do the
Marius and Carthage business now life's too full
and too short! Really, Richard, I'm afraid you're
getting very old! poor dear! past sixty I know!
and you're quite prehistoric in some of your fancies!
'Good-night!' er 'and farewell!' Sounds so
stagey, doesn't it!" She wiped the spasmodic tears
of mirth from her eyes, and still shaking with laugh-
ter gathered up her rich ermine wrap on one white,
jewelled arm. "Womanliness motherliness ! good
Lord, deliver us! I never thought you likely to
preach at me if I had I wouldn't have told you
anything! I took you for a sensible man of the
world but you are only a stupid old-fashioned thing
after all! Good-night! and farewell!"
She performed the taunting travesty of an elabo-
rate Court curtsey and passed him a handsome,
gleaming vision of satins, laces and glittering jewels
and opening the door with some noise and empha-
sis, she turned her head gracefully over her shoul-
der. Unkind laughter still lit up her face and hard,
brilliant eyes.
"Good-night! farewell!" she said again, and was
gone.
For a moment he stood inert where she left him
then sinking into a chair he covered his face with his
hands. So he remained for some time silently
wrestling with himself and his own emotions. He
had to realise that at an age when he might naturally
have looked for a tranquil home life a life tended
and soothed into its natural decline by the care and
devotion of the wife he had undemonstratively but
most tenderly loved, he was suddenly cast adrift like
the hulk of an old battleship broken from its moor-
324 INNOCENT v
ings, with nothing but solitude and darkness closing
in upon his latter days. Then he thought of the
girl, his wife's child the child too of his college
chum and dearest friend, he saw, impressed like a
picture on the cells of his brain, her fair young face,
pathetic eyes and sweet intelligence of expression,
he remembered how modestly she wore her sudden
fame, as a child might wear a wild flower, and,
placed by her parentage in a difficulty for which she
was not responsible, she must have suffered con-
siderable pain and sorrow.
"I will go and see her to-morrow," he said to
himself "It will be better for her to know that I
have heard all her sad little history then if she
ever wants a friend she can come to me without fear.
Ah! if only she were my daughter!"
He sighed, his handsome old head drooped, he
had longed for children and the boon had been de-
nied.
"If she were my daughter," he repeated, slowly
"I should be a proud man instead of a sorrowful
one!"
He turned off the lights in the library and went
upstairs to his bedroom. Outside his wife's door he
paused a moment, thinking he heard a sound, but
all was silent. Imagining that he probably would
not sleep he placed a book near his bedside but
nature was kind to his age and temperament, and
after about an hour of wakefulness and sad per-
plexity, all ruffling care was gradually smoothed
away from his mind, and he fell into a deep and
dreamless slumber.
Meanwhile Lady Blythe had been disrobed by a
drowsy maid whom she sharply reproached for being
sleepy when she ought to have been wide awake,
though it was long past midnight, and dismissing
the girl at last, she sat alone before her mirror, think-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 325
ing with some pettishness of the interview she had
just had with her husband.
"Old fool!" she soliloquised "He ought to know
better than to play the tragic-sentimental with me
at his time of life! I thought he would accept the
situation reasonably and help me to tackle it. Of
course it will be simply abominable if I am to meet
that girl at every big society function I don't know
what I shall do about it! Why didn't she stay in
her old farm-house! who could ever have imagined
her becoming famous! I shall go abroad, I think
that will be the best thing to do. If Blythe leaves
me as he threatens, I shall certainly not stay here by
myself to face the music! Besides, who knows?
the girl herself may 'round' on me when her head
gets a little more swelled with success. Such a
horrid bore! I wish I had never seen Pierce
Armitage!"
Even as she thought of him the vision came back
to her of the handsome face and passionate eyes of
her former lover, again she saw the romantic little
village by the sea where they had dwelt together as
in another Eden, she remembered how he would
hurry up from the shore bringing with him the
sketch he had been working at, eager for her eyes
to look at it, thrilling at her praise, and pouring out
upon her such tender words and caresses such as she
had never known since those wild and ardent days!
A slight shiver ran through her something like a
pang of remorse stung her hardened spirit.
"And the child," she murmured "The child
it clung to me and I kissed it! it was a dear little
thing!"
She glanced about her nervously the room
seemed full of wandering shadows.
"I must sleep!" she thought "I am worried and
out of sorts I must sleep and forget "
326 INNOCENT
She took out of a drawer in her dressing-table a
case of medicinal cachets marked "Veronal."
"One or two more or less will not hurt me," she
said, with a pale, forced smile at herself in the mir-
ror "I am accustomed to it and I must have a
good long sleep!"
*******
******
*****
She had her way. Morning came, and she was
still sleeping. Noon and nothing could waken her.
Doctors, hastily summoned, did their best to rouse
her to that life which with all its pains and possi-
bilities still throbbed in the world around her but
their efforts were vain.
"Suicide?" whispered one.
"Oh no! Mere accident! an overdose of veronal
some carelessness quite a common occurrence.
Nothing to be done!"
No! nothing to be done! Her slumber had
deepened into that strange stillness which we call
death, and her husband, a statuesque and rigid fig-
ure, gazed on her quiet body with tearless eyes.
"Good-night!" he whispered to the heavy silence
"Good-night! Farewell!"
CHAPTER VI
ONE of the advantages or disadvantages of the way
in which we live in these modern days is that we are
ceasing to feel. That is to say we do not permit
ourselves to be affected by either death or misfor-
tune, provided these natural calamities leave our
own persons unscathed. We are beginning not to
understand emotion except as a phase of bad man-
ners, and we cultivate an apathetic, soulless indiffer-
ence to events of great moment whether triumphant
or tragic, whenever they do not involve our own
well-being and creature comforts. Whole boat-loads
of fishermen may go forth to their doom hi the teeth
of a gale without moving us to pity so long as we
have our well-fried sole or grilled cod for breakfast,
and even such appalling disasters as the wicked as-
sassination of hapless monarchs, or the wrecks of
palatial ocean-liners with more than a thousand hu-
man beings all whelmed at once in the pitiless depths
of the sea, leave us cold, save for the uplifting of our
eyes and shoulders during an hour or so, an expres-
sion of slight shock, followed by forgetfulness. Air-
men, recklessly braving the spaces of the sky, fall
headlong, and are smashed to mutilated atoms every
month or so, without rousing us to more than a pass-
ing comment, and a chorus of "How dreadful!" from
simpering women, and the greatest and best man
alive cannot hope for long remembrance by the
world at large when he dies. Shakespeare recognised
this tendency in callous human nature when he
made his Hamlet say
327
328 INNOCENT
"0 heavens! Die two months ago and not for-
gotten yet? Then there's hope a great man's mem-
ory may outlive his life half a year, but by 'r lady,
he must build churches then, or else shall he suffer
not thinking on."
Wives recover the loss of their husbands with
amazing rapidity, husbands "get over" the demise
of their wives with the galloping ease of trained
hunters leaping an accustomed fence families for-
get their dead as resolutely as some debtors forget
their bills, and to express sorrow, pity, tenderness,
affection, or any sort of "sentiment" whatever is to
expose one's self to derision and contempt from the
"normal" modernist who cultivates cynicism as a
fine art. Many of us elect to live, each one, in a
little back-yard garden of selfish interests walled
round carefully, and guarded against possible in-
trusion by uplifted spikes of conventionalism, the
door is kept jealously closed and only now and then
does some impulsive spirit bolder than the rest, ven-
ture to put up a ladder and peep over the wall.
Shut in with various favourite forms of hypocrisy
and cowardice, each little unit passes its short life in
mistrusting its neighbour unit, and death finds none
of them wiser, better or nearer the utmost good than
when they were first uselessly born.
Among such vain and unprofitable atoms of life
Lady Maude Blythe had been one of the vainest and
most unprofitable, though of such "social" impor-
tance as to be held in respectful awe by tuft-hunters
and parasites, who feed on the rich as the green-fly
feeds on the rose. The news of her sudden death
briefly chronicled by the fashionable intelligence col-
umns of the press with the usual "We deeply re-
gret" created no very sorrowful sensation a few
vapid people idly remarked to one another "Then
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 329
her great ball won't come off!" somewhat as if
she had retired into the grave to avoid the trouble
and expense of the function. Cards inscribed
"Sympathy and kind enquiries" were left for Lord
Blythe in the care of his dignified butler, who re-
ceived them with the impassiveness of a Buddhist
idol and deposited them all on the orthodox salver
in the hall and a few messages of "Deeply shocked
and grieved. Condolences" by wires, not exceeding
sixpence each, were despatched to the lonely wid-
ower, but beyond these purely formal observances,
the handsome brilliant society woman dropped out
of thought and remembrance as swiftly as a dead
leaf drops from a tree. She had never been loved,
save by her two deluded dupes Pierce Armitage
and her husband, no one in the whole wide range
of her social acquaintance would have ever thought
of feeling the slightest affection for her. The first
announcement of her death appeared in an evening
paper, stating the cause to be an accidental over-
dose of veronal taken to procure sleep, and Miss
Leigh, seeing the paragraph by merest chance, gave
a shocked exclamation
"Innocent! My dear! how dreadful ! That poor
Lady Blythe we saw the other night is dead!"
The girl was standing by the tea-table just pour-
ing out a cup of tea for Miss Leigh she started so
nervously that the cup almost fell from her hand.
"Dead!" she repeated, in a low, stifled voice.
"Lady Blythe? Dead?"
"Yes! it is awful! That horrid veronal! Such
a dangerous drug! It appears she was accustomed
to take it for sleep and unfortunately she took an
over-dose. How terrible for Lord Blythe!"
Innocent sat down, trembling. Her gaze involun-
tarily wandered to the portrait of Pierce Armitage
the lover of the dead woman, and her father!
330 INNOCENT
The handsome face with its dreamy yet proud eyes
appeared conscious of her intense regard she looked
and looked, and longed to speak to tell Miss Leigh
all but something held her silent. She had her own
secret now and it restrained her from disclosing
the secrets of others. Nor could she realise that it
was her mother actually her own mother who had
been taken so suddenly and tragically from the
world. The news barely affected her nor was this
surprising, seeing that she had never entirely grasped
the fact of her mother's personality or existence at
all. She had felt no emotion concerning her, save
of repulsion and dislike. Her unexpected figure had
appeared on the scene like a strange vision, and
now had vanished from it as strangely. Innocent
was in very truth "motherless" but so she had al-
ways been for a mother who deserts her child is
worse than a mother dead. Yet it was some few
minutes before she could control herself sufficiently
to speak or look calmly and her eyes were down-
cast as Miss Leigh came up to the tea-table, newspa-
per in hand, to discuss the tragic incident.
"She was a very brilliant woman in society," said
the gentle old lady, then "You did not know her,
of course, and you could not judge of her by seeing
her just one evening. But I remember the time
when she was much talked of as 'the beautiful
Maude Osborne' she was a very lively, wilful girl,
and she had been rather neglected by her parents,
who left her in England in charge of some friends
while they were in India. I think she ran rather
wild at that time. There was some talk of her hav-
ing gone off secretly somewhere with a lover but I
never believed the story. It was a silly scandal
and of course it stopped directly she married Lord
Blythe. He gave her a splendid position, and he
was devoted to her poor man!"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 331
"Yes?" murmured Innocent, mechanically. She
did not know what to say.
"If she had been blessed with children or even
one child," went on Miss Leigh "I think it would
have been better for her. I am sure she would have
been happier! He would, I feel certain!"
"No doubt!" the girl answered in the same quiet
tone.
"My dear, you look very pale!" said Miss Leigh,
with some anxiety "Have you been working too
hard?"
She smiled.
"That would be impossible!" she answered. "I
could not work too hard it is such happiness to
work one forgets! yes one forgets all that one
does not wish to remember!"
The anxious expression still remained on Miss
Lavinia's face, but, true to the instincts of an old-
fashioned gentlewoman, she did not press enquiries
where she saw they might be embarrassing or un-
welcome. And though she now loved Innocent as
much as if she had been her own child, she never
failed to remember that after all, the girl had earned
her own almost wealthy independence, and was free
to do as she liked without anybody's control or
interference, and that though she was so young she
was bound to be in all respects untrammelled in her
life and actions. She went where she pleased she
had her own little hired motor-brougham she also
had many friends who invited her out without in-
cluding Miss Leigh in the invitations, and she was
still the "paying guest" at the little Kensington
house, a guest who was never tired of doing kindly
and helpful deeds for the benefit of the sweet old
woman who was her hostess. Once or twice Miss
Leigh had made a faint half-hearted protest against
her constant and lavish generosity.
332 INNOCENT
"My dear," she had said "With all the money
you earn now you could live in a much larger house
you could indeed have a house of your own, with
many more luxuries why do you stay here, shower-
ing advantages on me, who am nothing but a prosy
old body? you could do much better!"
"Could I really?" And Innocent had laughed
and kissed her. "Well! I don't want to do any
better I'm quite happy as I am. One thing is
(and you seem to forget it!) that I'm very fond
of you! and when I'm very fond of a person it's
difficult to shake me off!"
So she stayed on and lived her life with a nun-
like simplicity and economy spending her money on
others rather than herself, and helping those in
need, and never even in her dress, which was al-
ways exquisite, running into vagaries of extrava-
gance and follies of fashion. She had discovered a
little French dressmaker, whose husband had de-
serted her, leaving her with two small children to
feed and educate, and to this humble, un-famous
plier of the needle she entrusted her wardrobe with
entirely successful results. Worth, Paquin, Doucet
and other loudly advertised personages were all
quoted as "creators" of her gowns, whereat she was
amused.
"A little personal taste and thought go so much
further in dress than money," she was wont to say
to some of her rather envious women friends. "I
would rather copy the clothes in an old picture than
the clothes in a fashion book."
Odd fancies about her dead mother came to her
when she was alone in her own room particularly at
night when she said her prayers. Some mysterious
force seemed compelling her to offer up a petition
for the peace of her mother's soul, she knew from
the old books written by the "Sieur Amadis" that
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 333
to do this was a custom of his creed. She missed
it out of the Church of England Prayer-book, though
she dutifully followed the tenets of the faith in which
Miss Leigh had had her baptised and confirmed
but in her heart of hearts she thought it good and
right to pray for the peace of departed souls
"For who can tell" she would say to herself
"what strange confusion and sorrow they may be
suffering! away from all that they once knew and
cared for! Even if prayers cannot help them it is
kind to pray!"
And for her mother's soul she felt a dim and far-
off sense of pity almost a fear, lest that unsatisfied
spirit might be lost and wandering hi a chaos of dark
experience without any clue to guide or any light to
shine upon its dreadful solitude. So may the dead
come nearer to the living than when they also lived !
Some three or four weeks after Lady Blythe's
sudden exit from a world too callous to care whether
she stayed in it or went from it, Lord Blythe called
at Miss Leigh's house and asked to see her. He was
admitted at once, and the pretty old lady came down
in a great flutter to the drawing-room to receive him.
She found him standing in front of the harpsichord,
looking at the portrait upon it. He turned quickly
round as she entered and spoke with some abrupt-
ness.
"I must apologise for calling rather late in the
afternoon," he said "But I could not wait another
day. I have something important to tell you "
He paused then went on "It's rather startling to
me to find that portrait here! I knew the man.
Surely it is Pierce Armitage, the painter?"
"Yes" and Miss Leigh's eyes opened in a little
surprise and bewilderment "He was a great friend
of mine and of yours?"
"He was my college chum" and he walked closer
334 INNOCENT
to the picture and looked at it steadfastly "That
must have been taken when he was quite a young
man before " He paused again, then said
with a forced smile "Talking of Armitage is Miss
Armitage in?"
"No, she is not" and the old lady looked regret-
ful "She has gone out to tea I'm sorry "
"It's just as well" and Lord Blythe took one or
two restless paces up and down the little room
"I would rather talk to you alone first. Yes! that
portrait of Pierce must have been taken in early days
just about the time he ran away with Maude
Osborne"
Miss Leigh gazed at him enquiringly.
"With Maude Osborne?"
"Yes with Maude Osborne, who afterwards be-
came my wife."
Miss Leigh trembled and drew back, looking about
her in a dazed way as though seeking for some place
to hide in. Lord Blythe saw her agitation.
"I'm afraid I'm worrying you!" he said, kindly.
"Sit down, please," and he placed a chair for her.
"We are both elderly folk and shocks are not good
for us. There!" and he took her hand and patted
it gently "As I was saying, that portrait must have
been taken about then did he give it to you?"
"Yes," she answered, faintly "He did. We were
engaged "
"Engaged! Good God! You? to Pierce? My
dear lady, forgive me! I'm very sorry! I had no
idea ';
But Miss Leigh composed herself very quickly.
"Please do not mind me!" she said "It all hap-
pened so very long ago ! Yes Pierce Armitage and
I were engaged but he suddenly went away and
I was told he had gone with some very beautiful
girl he had fallen head over ears in love with and
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 335
I never saw him again. But I never reproached him
I I loved him too well!"
Silently Lord Blythe took the worn little hand
and raised it to his lips.
"Pierce was more cruel than I thought was pos-
sible to him" he said, at last, very gently "But
you have the best of him with you in his daugh-
ter!"
"His daughter!"
She sprang up, white and scared.
He gripped her arm and held it fast to support
her.
"Yes," he said "His daughter! That is what
I have come to tell you ! The girl who lives with you
the famous author whose name is just now ringing
through the world is his child! and her mother was
my wife!"
There was a little stifled cry she dropped back
in her chair and covered her face with her hands to
hide the tears that rushed to her eyes.
"Innocent!" she murmured, sobbingly "His
child ! Innocent ! "
He was silent, watching her, his own heart deeply
moved. He thought of her life of unbroken fidelity
wasted in its youth solitary in its age all for
the sake of one man. Presently, mastering her
quiet weeping, she looked up.
"Does she the dear girl! does she know this?"
she asked, in a half whisper.
"She has known it all the time," he answered
"She knew who her mother was before she came to
London but she kept her own counsel I think to
save the honour of all concerned. And she has made
her name famous to escape the reproach of birth
which others fastened upon her. A brave child!
it must have been strange to her to find her father's
portrait here did you ever speak of him to her?"
336 INNOCENT
"Often!" replied Miss Leigh. "She knows all my
story!"
He smiled, very kindly,
"No wonder she was silent!" he said.
Just then they heard the sound of a latch-key
turning in the lock of the hall door there was a light
step in the passage they looked at one another half
in wonder, half in doubt. A moment more and In-
nocent entered, radiant and smiling. She stopped
on the threshold, amazed at the sight of Lord
Blythe.
"Why, godmother" she began. Then, glancing
from one to the other, her cheeks grew pale she
hesitated, instinctively guessing at the truth. Lord
Blythe advanced and took her gently by both hands.
"Dear child, your secret is ours ! " he said, quietly.
"Miss Leigh knows, and / know that you are the
daughter of Pierce Armitage, and that your mother
was my late wife. No one can be dearer to us both
than you are for your father's sake!"
CHAPTER VII
STARTLED and completely taken aback, she let her
hands remain passively in his for a moment, then
quietly withdrew them. A hot colour rushed swiftly
into her cheeks and as swiftly receded, leaving her
very pale.
"How can you know?" she faltered "Who has
told you?"
"Your mother herself told me on the night she
died," he answered "She gave me all the truth of
herself, at last after long years!"
She was silent standing inert as though she had
received a numbing blow. Miss Leigh rose and came
tremblingly towards her.
"My dear, my dear!" she exclaimed "I wish I
had known it all before! I might have done more
I might have tried to be kinder "
The girl sprang to her side and impulsively em-
braced her.
"You would have tried in vain!" she said, fondly,
"No one on earth could have been kinder than my
beloved little godmother! You have been the dear-
est and best of friends!"
Then she turned towards Lord Blythe.
"It is very good of you to come here and say
what you have said" and she spoke in soft, almost
pathetic accents "But I am sorry that anyone
knows my story it is no use to know it, really! I
should have always kept it a secret for it chiefly
concerns me, after all, and why should my exist-
337
338 INNOCENT
ence cast a shadow on the memory of my father?
Perhaps you may have known him "
"I knew him and loved him!" said Lord Blythe,
quickly.
She looked at him with wistful, tear-wet eyes.
"Well then, how hard it must be for you to think
that he ever did anything unworthy of himself!"
she said "And for this dear lady it is cruel! for
she loved him too. And what am I that I should
cause all this trouble! I am a nameless creature
I took his name because I wanted to kindle a little
light of my own round ik I have done that! And
then I wanted to guard his memory from any whis-
per of scandal will you help me in this? The
secret must still be kept and no one must ever
know I am his daughter. For though your wife is
dead her name must not be shamed for the long
ago sin of her youth nor must I be branded as
what I am base-born."
Profoundly touched by the simple straightforward
eloquence of her appeal, Lord Blythe went up to
her where she stood with one arm round Miss Leigh.
"My dear child," he said, earnestly "believe me,
I shall never speak of your parentage or give the
slightest hint to anyone of the true facts of your
history still less would I allow you to be lightly
esteemed for what is no fault of your own. You
have made a brilliant name and fame for yourself
you have the right to that name and fame. I
came here to-day for two reasons one to tell you
that I was fully acquainted with all you had en-
dured and suffered the other to ask if you will let
me be your guardian your other father and give
me some right to shelter you from the rough ways
of the world. I may perhaps in this way make
some amends to you for the loss of mother-love and
father-love I would do my best "
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 339
He stopped a little troubled by unusual emotion.
Innocent, drawing her embracing arm away from
Miss Leigh, looked at him with wondering, grateful
eyes.
"How good you are!" she said, softly "You
would take care of me you with your proud name
and place! and I the poor, unfortunately born
child of your dead friend! Ah, you kind, gentle
heart! I thank you! but no! I must not accept
such a sacrifice on your part
"It would be no sacrifice" he interrupted her,
eagerly "No, child! it would be pure selfishness!
for I'm getting old and am lonely and and I
want someone to look after me!" He laughed a
little awkwardly. "Why not come to me and be my
daughter?"
She smiled caught his hand and kissed it.
"I will be a daughter to you in affection and
respect," she said "But I will not take any benefits
from you no, none! Oh, I know well all you could
and would do for me! you would place me in the
highest ranks of that society where you are a leader,
and you would surround me with so many advan-
tages and powerful friends that I should forget my
duty, which is to work for myself, and owe nothing
to any man! Dear, kind Lord Blythe! do not
think me ungrateful! But I have made my own
little place in the world, and I must keep it inde-
pendently! Am I not right, my godmother?"
Miss Leigh looked at her anxiously, and sighed.
"My dear, you must think well about it," she
said "Lord Blythe would care for you as his own
child, I am sure and his home would be a safe and
splendid one for you but there! do not ask me!"
and the old lady wiped away one or two trickling
tears from her eyes "I am selfish! and now I
know you are Pierce's daughter I want to keep you
340 INNOCENT
for myself! to have you near me! to look at you
and love you! "
Her voice broke her gaze instinctively wandered
to the portrait of the man whose memory she had
cherished so long and so fondly.
"What did you think what must you have
thought the first day you came here when I asked
you if you were any relation to Pierce Armitage,
and told you that was his portrait!" she said, wist-
fully.
"I thought that God had guided me to you," the
girl answered, in soft, grave accents "And that my
father's spirit had not forsaken me!"
There was a moment's silence. Then she spoke
more lightly
"Dear Lord Blythe," she said "Now that you
know so much may I tell you my own story? It
will not take long! Come and sit here yes!" and
she placed a comfortable arm-chair for him, while
she drew Miss Leigh gently down on the sofa and
sat next to her "It is nothing of a story! my little
life is not at all like the lives lived by all the girls of
my age that I have ever met or seen it's all in the
past, as it were, the old, very old past! as far
back as the days of Elizabeth ! "
She laughed, but there were tears in her eyes
she brushed them away and holding Miss Leigh's
hand in her own, she told with simple truth and di-
rectness the narrative of her childhood's days her
life on Briar Farm how she had been trained by
Priscilla to bake, and brew, and wash and sew,
and how she had found her chief joy and relaxation
from household duties in the reading of the old
books she had found stowed away in the dower-
chests belonging to the "Sieur Amadis de Jocelin."
As she pronounced the name with an unconscious-
ly tender accentuation Lord Blythe interrupted her.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 341
"Why, that's a curious thing! I know a rather
clever painter named Amadis de Jocelyn and surely
you were dancing with him on the evening I first
met you?"
A wave of rosy colour swept over her cheeks.
"Yes! that is what I was just going to tell
you!" she said. "He is another Amadis de Jocelyn!
and he is actually connected with a branch of the
same family! His ancestor was the brother of that
very Amadis who lies buried at Briar Farm! Is it
not strange that I should have met him! and he
is going to paint my portrait!"
"Is he indeed!" and Lord Blythe did not look
impressed "I thought he was a landscape man."
"So he is," she explained, with eagerness "But
he can do portraits and he wishes to make a pic-
ture of me, because I have been a student of the
books written by one of his ancient line. Those
books taught me all I know of literature. You see,
it is curious, isn't it?"
"It is," he agreed, rather hesitatingly "But I've
never quite liked Jocelyn he's clever yet he has
always struck me as being intensely selfish, a cal-
lous sort of man many artists are."
Her eyes drooped, and her breath came and went
quickly.
"I suppose all clever men get self-absorbed some-
times!" she said, with a quaint little air of wisdom
"But I don't think he is really callous " She
broke off, and laughed brightly "Anyhow we
needn't discuss him need we? I just wanted to
tell you what an odd experience it has been for me
to meet and to know someone descended from the
family of the old French knight whose spirit was
my instructor in beautiful things! The little books
of his own poems were full of loveliness and I used
342 INNOCENT
to read them over and over again. They were all
about love and faith and honour "
"Very old-fashioned subjects!" said Lord Blythe,
with a slight smile "And not very much in favour
nowadays!"
Miss Leigh looked at him questioningly.
"You think not?" she said.
He gave a quick sigh.
"It is difficult to know what to think," he an-
swered "But I have lived a long life long enough
to have seen the dispersal of many illusions ! I fear
selfishness is the keynote of the greater part of hu-
manity. Those who do the kindest deeds are in-
variably the worst rewarded and love in its highest
form is so little known that it may be almost termed
non-existent. You" and he looked at Innocent
"you write in a very powerful and convincing way
about things of which you can have had no real
experience and therein lies your charm! You re-
store the lost youth of manhood by idealisation, and
you compel your readers to 'idealise' with you but
'to idealise' is rather a dangerous verb! and its con-
jugation generally means trouble and disaster.
Ideals unless they are of the spiritual kind un-
attainable on this planet are apt to be very dis-
appointing."
Innocent smiled.
"But love is an ideal which cannot disappoint,
because it is everlasting!" she said, almost joyously.
"The story of the old French knight is, in its way,
a proof of that. He loved his ideal all his life, even
though he could not win her."
"Very wonderful if true!" he answered "But
I cannot quite believe it! I am too familiar with
the ways of my own sex! Anyhow, dear child, I
should advise you not to make too many ideals apart
from the characters in the books you write. Fortu-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 343
nately your special talent brings you an occupation
which will save you from that kind of thing. You
have ambition as an incentive, and fame for a
goal."
She was silent for a moment. In relating the
story of her life at Briar Farm she had not spoken
of Robin Clifford, some instinct told her that the
sympathies of her hearers might be enlisted hi his
favour, and she did not want this.
"Well, now you know what my 'literary education'
has been," she went on "Since I came to London
I have tried to improve myself as much as I can
and I have read a great many modern books but
to me they seem to lack the real feeling of the old-
time literature. For instance, if you read the ac-
count of the battle of the Armada by a modern
historian it sounds tame and cold, but if you read
the same account in Camden's 'Elizabeth' the
whole scene rises before you, you can almost see
every ship riding the waves!"
Her cheeks glowed and her eyes shone, Lord
Blythe smiled approvingly.
"I see you are an enthusiast!" he said "And
you could not have better teachers than the Eliza-
bethans. They lived in a great age and they were
great men. Our times, though crowded with the
splendid discoveries of science, seem small and poor
compared to theirs. If you ever come to me, I can
give you the run of a library where you will find
many friends."
She thanked him by a look, and he went on
"You will come and see me often, will you not?
you and Miss Leigh by-and-by, when the conven-
tional tune of mourning for my poor wife is over.
Make my house your second home, both of you!
and when I return from Italy "
344 INNOCENT
"Oh!" the girl exclaimed, impulsively "Are you
going to Italy?"
"For a few weeks yes! will you come with me
you and your godmother?"
His old heart beat, a sudden joy lighted his
eyes. It would have been like the dawn of a new
day to him had she consented, but she shook her
fair little head decisively.
"I must not!" she said "I am bound to finish
some work that I have promised. But some day
ah, yes! some day I should love to see Italy!"
The light went slowly from his face.
"Some day! well! I hope I may live to be
with you on that 'some day/ I ought not to leave
London just now but the house is very lonely and
I think I am best away for a time "
"Much best!" said Miss Leigh, sympathetically
"And if there is anything we can do "
"Yes there is one thing that will please me very
much," said Lord Blythe, drawing from his pocket
a small velvet case "I want my friend Pierce's
daughter to wear this it was my first gift to her
mother." Here he opened the case and showed an
exquisite pendant, in the shape of a dove, finely
wrought in superb brilliants, and supported on a
thin gold chain. "I gave it as an emblem of inno-
cence" a quick sigh escaped him "I little knew!
but you, dear girl, are the one to wear it now!
Let me fasten it round your neck."
She stooped forward, and he took a lingering
pleasure in putting the chain on and watching the
diamonds flash against her fair skin. She was too
much moved to express any worded thanks it was
not the value or the beauty of the gift that touched
her, but its association and the way it was given.
And then, after a little more desultory conversation,
he rose to go.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 345
"Remember!" he said, taking her tenderly by
both hands "Whenever you want a home and a
father, both are ready and waiting for you!" And
he kissed her lightly on the forehead. "You are
famous and independent, but the world is not always
kind to a clever woman even when she is visibly
known to be earning her own living. There are al-
ways spiteful tongues wagging in the secret corners
and byways, ready to assert that her work is not
her own and that some man is in the background,
helping to keep her!"
He then shook hands warmly with Miss Leigh.
"If she ever comes to me" he went on "you
are free to come with her and be assured of my
utmost friendship and respect. I shall feel I am in
some way doing what I know my old friend Pierce
Armitage would, in his best moments, approve, if
I can be of the least service to you. You will not
forget?"
Miss Leigh was too overcome by the quiet sweet-
ness and dignity of his manner to murmur more
than a few scarcely audible words of gratitude in
reply and when at last he took his leave, she re-
lieved her heart by throwing her arms round Inno-
cent and having what she called "a good cry."
"And you Pierce's child!" she half laughed, half
sobbed "Oh, how could he leave you at that farm !
poor little thing! and yet it might have been
much worse "
"Indeed I should think so!" and Innocent soothed
her fondly with the tenderest caresses "Very much
worse! Why, if I had not been left at Briar Farm,
I should never have known Dad! and he was one
of the best of men and I should never have learned
how to think, and write my thoughts, from the
teaching of the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin!"
There was a little thrill of triumph in her voice
346 INNOCENT
and Miss Leigh, wiping away her tears, looked at
her timidly and curiously.
"How you dwell on the memory of that French
knight!" she said. "When are you going to have
your portrait painted by the modern Amadis?"
Innocent smiled.
"Very soon!" she answered "We are to begin
our sittings next week. I am to wear a white frock
and I told him about my dove Cupid, and how it
used to fly from the gables of the house to my hand
and he is going to paint the bird as well as me!"
She laughed with the joy of a child.
"Fancy! Cupid will be there!"
"Cupid?" echoed Miss Leigh, wonderingly.
"Yes Cupid! usually known as the little god of
love, but only a dove this time! so much more
harmless than the god!"
Miss Leigh touched the diamond pendant at the
girl's neck.
"You have a dove there now," she said "All
in jewels! And in your heart, dear child, I pray
there is a spiritual dove of holy purity to guard you
from all evil and keep your sweet soul safe and
clean!"
A startled look came into the girl's soft grey-blue
eyes, a deep flush of rose flew over her cheeks and
brow.
"A blessing or a warning, godmother mine?" she
said.
Miss Leigh drew her close in her arms and kissed
her.
"Both!" she answered, simply.
There was a moment's silence.
Then Innocent, her face still warm with colour,
walked close up to the harpsichord where her
father's picture stood.
"Let us talk of himl" she said "Now that you
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 347
know I am his daughter, tell me all you remember of
him! how he spoke, how he looked! what sort of
pictures he painted and what he used to say to
you! He loved you once, and I love you now! so
you must tell me everything!"
CHAPTER VIII
FAME, or notoriety, whichever that special noise
may be called when the world like a hound "gives
tongue" and announces that the quarry in some form
of genius is at bay, is apt to increase its clamour
in proportion to the aloofness of the pursued ani-
mal, and Innocent, who saw nothing remarkable
in remaining somewhat secluded and apart from the
ordinary routine of social life so feverishly followed
by more than half her sex, was very soon classified
as "proud" "eccentric" "difficult" and "vain," by
idle and ignorant persons who knew nothing about
her, and only judged her by their own limited con-
ceptions of what a successful author might or could
possibly be like. Some of these, more foolish than
the rest, expressed themselves as afraid or unwilling
to meet her "lest she should put them into her
books" this being a common form of conceit with
many individuals too utterly dull and uninteresting
to "make copy" for so much as the humblest para-
graphist. It was quite true that she showed her-
self sadly deficient in the appreciation of society
functions and society people, to her they seemed
stupid and boresome, involving much waste of
precious time, but notwithstanding this, she was
invited everywhere, and the accumulation of
"R.S.V.P." cards on her table and desk made such
a formidable heap that it was quite a business to
clear them, as she did once a week, with the as-
sistance of the useful waste-paper basket. As a
writer her popularity was unquestionable, and so
348
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 349
great and insistent was the public demand for any-
thing from her pen that she could command her
own terms from any publishing quarter. Her good
fortune made very little effect upon her, sometimes
it seemed as if she hardly realised or cared to realise
it. She had odd, almost child-like ways of spending
some of her money in dainty "surprise" gifts to her
friends that is to say, such friends as had shown
her kindness, beautiful flowers and fruit for in-
valids choice wines for those who needed yet could
not afford them, a new drawing-room carpet for
Miss Leigh, which was, in the old lady's opinion,
a most important and amazing affair! costly furs,
also for Miss Leigh, and devices and adornments
of all sorts for the pleasure, beauty or comfort of
the house but on herself personally she spent noth-
ing save what was necessary for such dress and ap-
pearance as best accorded with her now acknowl-
edged position. Dearly as she would have loved to
shower gifts and benefits on the inhabitants of never-
forgotten Briar Farm, she knew that if she did any-
thing of the kind poor lonely old Priscilla Friday
and patiently enduring Robin Clifford were more
likely to be hurt than gratified. For a silence had
fallen between that past life, which had been like
a wild rose blossoming in a country lane, and the
present one, which resembled a wonderful orchid
flower, flaming in heat under glass, and though she
wrote to Robin now and again, and he replied, his
letters were restrained and formal almost cold. He
knew too well how far she was removed from him by
more than distance, and bravely contented himself
with merely giving her such news of the farm and
her former home surroundings as might awaken her
momentary interest without recalling too many old
memories to her mind.
She seemed, and to a very great extent she was,
350 INNOCENT
unconscious of the interest and curiosity both her
work and her personality excited the more so now
as the glamour and delight of her creative imagina-
tion had been obscured by what she considered a far
greater and more lasting glory that of love! the
golden mirage of a fancied sun, which for a time had
quenched the steadier shining of eternal stars. Since
that ever memorable night when he had suddenly
stormed the fortress of her soul, and by the mastery
of a lover's kiss had taken full possession, Amadis
de Jocelyn had pursued his "amour" with admirable
tact, cleverness and secrecy. He found a new and
stimulating charm in making love to a tender-
hearted, credulous little creature who seemed truly
"of such stuff as dreams are made of" and to a
man of his particular type and temperament there
was an irresistible provocation to his vanity in the
possibility of being able to lure her gradually and
insidiously down from the high ground of intellec-
tual ambition and power to the low level of that
pitiful sex-submission which is responsible for so
much more misery than happiness in this world.
Little by little, under his apparently brusque and
playful, but really studied training, she began to
think less and less of her work, the books she had
loved to read and refer to, insensibly lost their
charm, she went reluctantly to her desk, and as re-
luctantly took up her pen, what she had written
already, appeared to her utterly worthless, and
what she attempted to write now was to her mind
poor and unsatisfying. She was not moved by the
knowledge, constantly pressed upon her, that she
was steadily rising, despite herself, to the zenith
of her career in such an incredibly swift and bril-
liant way as to be the envy of all her contemporaries,
she was hardly as grateful for her honours as
weary of them and a little contemptuous. What
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 351
did it all matter to her when half of her once busy
working mornings were now often passed in the
studio of Amadis de Jocelyn! He was painting a
full-length portrait of her a mere excuse to give
her facilities for visiting him, and ensure his own
privacy and convenience in receiving her and
every day she went to him, sometimes late in the
afternoons as well as the mornings, slipping in and
out familiarly and quite unnoticed, for he had given
her a key to the private door of his studio, which
was reached through a small, deeply shaded garden,
abutting on an old-fashioned street near Holland
Park. She could enter at any time, and thought it
was the customary privilege accorded by an artist
to his sitter, while it saved the time and trouble
of the rheumatic "odd man" or servant whose fail-
ing limbs were slow to respond to a summons at the
orthodox front entrance. She would come in, dressed
in her simple navy blue serge walking costume, and
then in a little room just off the studio would
change and put on the white dress which her lover
had chosen as the most suitable for his purpose, and
which he called the "portrait gown." It was simple,
and severely Greek, made of the softest and filmiest
material which fell gracefully away in enchanting
folds from her childishly rounded neck and arms,
it gave her the appearance of a Psyche or an
Ariadne, and at the first sitting, when he had
posed her in several attitudes before attempting
to draw a line, she had so much sweet attractive-
ness about her that he was hardly to be blamed
for throwing aside all work and devoting himself
to such ardent delight in woman's fairness as may
sometimes fall to the lot of man. While moving
from one position to another as he suggested or
commanded, she had playfully broken off one flower
from a large plant of "marguerite" daisies growing
352 INNOCENT
in a quaint Japanese pot, close at hand, and had
begun pulling off the petals according to the old
fanciful charm "II m'aime! un peu! beaucoup!
passionement ! pas du tout!" He stopped her at
the word "passionement," and caught her in his
arms.
"Not another petal must be plucked!" he whis-
pered, kissing her soft warm neck "I will not have
you say Tas du tout!' '
She laughed delightedly, nestling against him.
"Very well!" she said "But suppose "
"Suppose what?"
"Suppose it ever came to that?" and she sighed
as she spoke -"Then the last petal must fall!"
"Do you think it ever will or can come to that?"
he asked, pressing a kiss on the sweet upturned lips
"Does it seem like it?"
She was too happy to answer him, and he was
too amorous just then to think of anything but her
soft eyes, dewy with tenderness her white, ivory-
smooth skin her small caressing hands, and the
fine bright tendrils of her waving hair all these
were his to play with as a child plays with beauti-
ful toys unconscious of or indifferent to their value.
Many such passages of love occupied their tune
though he managed to make a good show of pro-
gressive work after the first rough outline drawing
of the picture was completed. He was undeniably
a genius in his way, uncertain and erratic of im-
pulse, but his art was strong because its effects were
broad and simple. He had begun Innocent's por-
trait out of the mere desire to have her with him
constantly, but as day after day went on and the
subject developed under his skilled hand and brush
he realised that it would probably be "the" picture
of the Salon in the following year. As this convic-
tion dawned upon him, he took greater pains, and
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 353
worked more carefully and conscientiously with
the happiest results, feeling a thrill of true artistic
satisfaction as the picture began to live and smile
in response to his masterly touch and treatment.
Its composition was simple he had drawn the girl
as though she were slowly advancing towards the
spectator, giving her figure all the aerial grace hab-
itual to it by nature, one little daintily shaped
hand held a dove lightly against her breast, as
though the bird had just flown there for protec-
tion from its own alarm, her face was slightly up-
lifted, the lips smiled, and the eyes looked straight
out at the world with a beautiful, clear candour
which was all their own. Yet despite the charm and
sweetness of the. likeness there was a strange pathos
about it, a sadness which Jocelyn had never set
there by his own will or intention.
"You are a puzzling subject," he said to her one
day "I wanted to give you a happy expression
and yet your portrait is actually growing sad! al-
most reproachful! ... do you look at me like
that?"
She opened her pretty eyes wonderingly.
"Amadis! Surely not! I could not look sad
when I am with you! that is impossible!"
He paused, palette in hand.
"Nor reproachful?"
"How? When I have nothing to reproach you
for?" she answered.
He put his palette aside and came and sat at her
feet on the step of the dais where he had posed her.
"You may rest," he said, smiling up at her
"And so may I." She sat down beside him and he
folded her in his arms. "How often we rest in this
way, don't we!" he murmured "And so you think
you have nothing to reproach me for! Well, I'm
not so sure of that Innocent!"
*54 INNOCENT
She looked at him questioningly.
"Are you talking nonsense, my 'Sieur Amadis'?
or are you serious?" she asked.
"I am quite serious much more serious than is
common with me," he replied, taking one of her
hands and studying it as the perfect model it was
"I believe I am involving you in all sorts of trouble
and you, you absurd little child, don't see it!
Suppose Miss Leigh were to find out that we make
the maddest love to each other in here you all
alone with me what would she say?"
"What could she say?" Innocent demanded, sun-
ply "There is no harm! and I should not mind
telling her we are lovers."
"I should, though!" was his quick thought, while
he marvelled at her unworldliness.
"Besides" she continued "she has no right over
me."
"Who has any right over you?" he asked, curi-
ously.
She laughed, softly.
"No one! except you!"
"Oh, hang me!" he exclaimed, impatiently
"Leave me out of the question. Have you no father
or mother?"
She was a little hurt at his sudden irritability.
"No," she answered, quietly "I have often told
you I have no one. I am alone in the world I
can do as I like." Then a smile brightened her face.
"Lord Blythe would have me as a daughter if I
would go to him."
He started and loosened her from his embrace.
"Lord Blythe! That wealthy old peer! What
does he want with you?"
"Nothing, I suppose, but the pleasure of my
company!" and she laughed "Doesn't that seem
strange?"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 355
He rose and went back to work at his easel.
"Rather!" he said, slowly "Are you going to
accept his offer?"
Her eyes opened widely.
"I? My Amadis, how can you think it? I would
not accept it for all the world! He would load me
with benefits he would surround me with luxuries
but I do not want these. I like to work for myself
and be independent."
He laid a brush lightly in colour and began to use
it with delicate care.
"You are not very wise," he then said "It's
a great thing for a young girl like you who are all
alone in the world, to be taken in hand by such a
man as Blythe. He's a statesman, very useful to
his country, he's very rich and has a splendid po-
sition. His wife's sudden death has left him very
lonely as he has no children, you could be a
daughter to him, and it would be a great leap up-
wards for you, socially speaking. You would be
much better off under his care than scribbling
books."
She drew a sharp breath of pain, all the pretty
colour fled from her cheeks.
"You do not care for me to scribble books!" she
said, in low, stifled accents.
He laughed.
"Oh, I don't mind! I never read them, and
in a way it amuses me! You are such an armful
of sweetness such a warm, nestling little bird of
love in my arms! and to think that you actually
write books that the world talks about! the thing
is so incongruous so 'out of drawing' that it makes
me laugh! I don't like writing women as a rule
they give themselves too many airs to please me
but you "
856 INNOCENT
He paused.
"Well, go on," she said, coldly.
He looked at her, smiling.
"You are cross? Don't be cross, you lose your
enchanting expression ! Well you don't give your-
self any airs, and you seem to play at literature like
a child playing at a game: of course you make
money by it, but you know better than I do
that the greatest writers" he emphasized the word
"greatest" slightly "never make money and are
never popular."
"Does failure constitute greatness?" she asked,
with a faintly satirical inflection in her sweet voice
which he had never heard before.
"Sometimes in fact pretty often," he replied,
dabbing his brush busily on his canvas "You should
read about great authors "
"I have read about them," she said "Walter
Scott was popular and made money, Charles Dick-
ens was popular and made money Thackeray was
popular and made money Shakespeare himself
seemed to have had the one principal aim of making
sufficient money enough to live comfortably in his
native town, and he was 'popular' in his day
indeed he 'played to the gallery.' But he was not a
'failure' and the whole world acknowledges his
greatness now, though in his life-time he was un-
conscious of it."
Surprised at her quick eloquence, he paused in his
work.
"Very well spoken!" he remarked, condescend-
ingly "I see you take a high view of your art!
But like all women, you wander from the point.
We were talking of Lord Blythe and I say it would
be far better for you to be well! his heiress!
for he might leave you all his fortune than go on
writing books."
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 357
Her lips quivered : despite her efforts, tears started
to her eyes. He saw, and throwing down his brush
came and knelt beside her, passing his arm round
her waist.
"What have I said?" he murmured, coaxingly
"Innocent! sweet little love! Forgive me if I have
what?" and he laughed softly "rubbed you up
the wrong way!"
She forced a smile, and her delicate white hands
wandered caressingly through his hair as he laid his
head against her bosom.
"I am sorry!" she said, at last "I thought I
hoped you might be proud of my work, Amadis!
I was planning it all for that! You see" she hes-
itated "I learned so much from the Sieur Amadis
de Jocelin the brother of your ancestor! that I
have been thinking all the tune how I could best
show you that I was worthy of his teaching. The
world or the public you know the things they say
of me but I do not want their praise. I believe I
could do something really great if you cared! for
now it is only to please you that I live."
A sense of shame stung him at this simple avowal.
"Nonsense!" he said, almost brusquely "You
have a thousand other things to live for you must
not think of pleasing me only. Besides I'm not very
keen on literature, I'm a painter."
"Surely painting owes something to literature?"
she queried "We should not have had all the won-
derful Madonnas and Christs of the old masters if
there had been no Bible!"
"True! but perhaps we could have done without
them!" he said, lightly "I'm not at all sure that
painting would not have got on just as well without
literature at all. There is always nature to study
sky, sea, landscape and the faces of lovely women
358 INNOCENT
and children, quite enough for any man. Where is
Lord Blythe now?"
"In Italy," she replied "He will be away some
months."
She spoke with constraint. Her heart was heavy
the hopes and ambitions she had cherished of
adding lustre to her fame for the joy and pride of
her lover, seemed all crushed at one blow. She was
too young and inexperienced to realise the fact that
few men are proud of any woman's success, especially
in the arts. Their attitude is one of amused toler-
ance when it is not of actual sex- jealousy or con-
tempt Least of all can any man endure that the
woman for whom he has a short spell of passionate
fancy should be considered notable, or in an intel-
lectual sense superior to himself. He likes her to be
dependent on him alone for her happiness, for such
poor crumbs of comfort he is pleased to give her
when the heat of his first passion has cooled, but
he is not altogether pleased when she has sufficient
intelligent perception to see through his web of
subterfuge and break away clear of the entangling
threads, standing free as a goddess on the height
of her own independent attainment. Innocent's
idea of love was the angelic dream of truth and ever-
lastingness set forth by poets, whose sweet singing
deludes themselves and others, she was ready to
devote all the unique powers of her mind and brain
to the perfecting of herself for her lover's delight.
She wished to be beautiful, brilliant, renowned and
admired, simply that he might take joy in knowing
that this beautiful, brilliant, renowned and admired
creature was his, body and soul existing solely for
him and content to live only so long as he lived, to
work only so long as he worked, to be nothing
apart from his love, but to be everything he could
desire or command while his love environed her.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 359
She thought of the eternal union of souls, while he
had no belief in the soul at all, his half French mate-
rialism persuading him that there was nothing eter-
nal. And like all men of his type he estimated
her tenderness for him, her clinging arms, and the
lingering passion of her caresses, to be chiefly the
outflow of pleased vanity the kittenish satisfac-
tion of being stroked and fondled the sense of her
own sex-attractiveness, but of anything deep and
closely rooted in the centre of a more than usually
sensitive nature he had not the faintest conception,
taking it for granted that all women, even clever
ones, were more or less alike, easily consoled by new
millinery when lovers failed.
Sometimes, during the progress of their secret
amour, a thrill of uneasiness and fear ran coldly
through her veins a wondering doubt which she
.repelled with indignation whenever it suggested it-
self. Amadis de Jocelyn was and must be the very
embodiment of loyalty and honour to the woman
he loved! it could not be otherwise. His tender-
ness was ardent, his passion fiery and eager, yet
she wondered timidly and with deep humiliation
in herself for daring to think so far why, if he lored
her so much as he declared, did he not ask her to be
his wife? She supposed he would do so, though
she had heard him depreciate marriage as a necessary
evil. Evidently he had his own good reasons for
deferring the fateful question. Meanwhile she made
a little picture-gallery of ideal joys in her brain,
and one of her fancies was that when she married
her Amadis she would ask Robin Clifford to let her
buy Briar Farm.
"He could paint well there!" she thought, hap-
pily, already seeing in her mind's eye the "Great
Hall" transformed into an artist's studio "and I
almost think 7 could carry on the farm Priscilla
360 INNOCENT
would help me, and we know just how Dad liked
things to be done if if Robin went away. And
the master of the house would again be a true
Jocelyn ! "
The whole plan seemed perfectly natural and
feasible. Only one obstacle presented itself like a
dark shadow on the brightness of her dream and
that was her own "base" birth. The brand of il-
legitimacy was upon her, and whereas once she
alone had known what she judged to be a shameful
secret, now two others shared it with her Miss
Leigh and Lord Blythe. They would never betray
it no ! but they could not alter what unkind fate
had done for her. This was one reason why she was
glad that Amadis de Jocelyn had not as yet spoken
of their marriage.
"For I should have to tell him!" she thought,
woefully "I should have to say that I am the il-
legitimate daughter of Pierce Armitage and then
perhaps he would not marry me he might change
ah no! he could not! he would not! he loves
me too dearly ! He would never let me go he wants
me always! We are all the world to each other!
nothing could part us now!"
And so the time drifted on and with its drifting
her work drifted too, and only one all-absorbing
passion possessed her life with its close and consum-
ing fire. Amadis de Jocelyn was an expert in the
seduction of a soul little by little he taught her to
judge all men as worthless save himself, and all
opinions unwarrantable and ill-founded unless he
confirmed them. And, leading her away from the
contemplation of high visions, he made her the blind
worshipper of a very inadequate idol. She was
happy in her faith, and yet not altogether sure of
happiness. For there are two kinds of love one
with strong wings which lift the soul to a dazzling
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 361
perfection of immortal destiny, the other with gross
and heavy chains which fetter every hope and aspi-
ration and drag the finest intelligence down to dark
waste and nothingness.
CHAPTER IX
IN affairs of love a woman is perhaps most easily
ensnared by a man who can combine passion with
pleasantry and hot pursuit with social tact and
diplomacy. Amadis de Jocelyn was an adept at this
kind of thing he was, if it may be so expressed, a
refined libertine, loving women from a purely phys-
ical sense of attraction and pleasure conveyed to
himself, and obtusely ignorant of the needs or de-
mands of their higher natures. From a mental or
intellectual standpoint all women to him were alike,
made to be "managed" alike, used alike, and alike
set aside when their use was done with. The leaven of
the Jew or the Turk was in the temperament of this
descendant of a long line of French nobles, who had
gamed their chief honours by killing men, ravishing
women and plundering their neighbours' lands
though occasional flashes of bravery and chivalry
had glanced over their annals in history like the light
from a wandering will o' the wisp flickering over a
morass. Gifted in his art, but wholly undisciplined
in his nature, he had lived a life of selfish aims to
selfish ends, and in the course of it had made love
to many women, one especially, on whose devoted
affections he had preyed like an insect that ungrate-
fully poisons the flower from which it has sucked
the honey. This woman, driven to bay at last by
his neglect and effrontery, had roused the scattered
forces of her pride and had given him his conge and
he had been looking about for a fresh victim when
he met Innocent. She was a complete novelty to
362
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 363
him, and stimulated his more or less jaded emotions,
he found her quaint and charming as a poet's
dream of some nymph of the woodlands, her man-
ner of looking at life and the things of life was so
deliciously simple almost mediaeval, for she be-
lieved that a man should die rather than break his
word or imperil his honour, which to Jocelyn was
such a primitive state of things as to seem pre-
historic. Then there was her fixed and absurd
"fancy" about the noble qualities and manifold vir-
tues of the French knight who had served the Due
d'Anjou, and who had been to her from childhood
a kind of lover in the spirit, a being whom she
had instinctively tried to serve and to please; and
he had sufficient imagination to understand and
take advantage of the feeling aroused in her when
she had met one of the same descent, and bearing
the same name, in himself. He had run through the
gamut of many emotions and sentiments, he had
joined one or two of the new schools of atheism and
modernism started by certain self-opinionated young
University men, and in the earlier stages of his ca-
reer had in the cock-sure impulse of youth designed
schemes for the regeneration of the world, till the
usual difficulties presented themselves as opposed to
such vast business, he had associated himself with
men who followed what is called the "fleshly school"
of poetry and art generally, and had evolved from
his own mentality a comfortable faith of which the
chief tenet was "Self for Self" a religion which
lifts the mind no higher than the purely animal
plane; and hi its environment of physical con-
sciousness and agreeable physical sensations, he was
content to live.
With such a temperament and disposition as he
possessed, which swayed him hither and thither on
the caprice or impulse of the moment, his intentions
364 INNOCENT
toward Innocent were not very clear even to him-
self. When he had begun his "amour" with her he
had meant it to go just as far as should satisfy his
own whim and desire, but as he came to know her
better, he put a check on himself and hesitated as
one may hesitate before pulling up a rose-bush from
its happy growing place and flinging it out on the
dust-heap to die. She was so utterly unsuspicious
and unaware of evil, and she had placed him on so
high a pedestal of honour, trusting him with such
perfect and unquestioning faith, that for very man-
hood's sake he could not bring himself to tear the
veil from her eyes. Moreover he really loved her
in a curious, haphazard way of love, more than he
had ever loved any one of her sex, and, when in
her presence and under her influence, he gained a
glimmering of consciousness of what love might
mean in its best and purest sense.
He laughed at himself however for this very
thought. He had always pooh-pooh'd the idea of
love as having anything divine or uplifting in its
action, nevertheless in his more sincere moments
he was bound to confess that since he had known
Innocent his very art had gained a certain breadth
and subtlety which it had lacked before. It was a
pleasure to him to see her eyes shine with pride in
his work, to hear her voice murmur dulcet praises
of his skill, and for a time he took infinite pains with
all his subjects, putting the very best of himself into
his drawing and colouring with results that were
brilliant and convincing enough to ensure success for
all his efforts. Sometimes lost in a sudden fit of
musing he wondered how his life would shape it-
self if he married her? He had avoided marriage as
a man might avoid hanging, considering it, not
without reason, the possible ruin of an artist's greater
career. Among many men he had known, men of
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 365
undoubted promise, it had proved the fatal step
downward from the high to the low. One particular
"chum" of his own, a gifted painter, had married a
plump rosy young woman with "a bit o' money,"
as the country folks say, and from that day had
been steadily dragged down to the domestic level
of sad and sordid commonplace. Instead of study-
ing form and colour, he was called upon to ex-
amine drains and superintend the plumber, mark
house linen and take care of the children his wife
believing in "making a husband useful." Of regard
for his art or possible fame she had none, while his
children were taught to regard his work in that line
as less important than if he had been a bricklayer
at so much pence the hour.
"Children!" thought Jocelyn "Do I want them?
. . . No I think not! They're all very well when
they're young really young! two to five years old
is the enchanting age, but, most unfortunately,
they grow! Yes! they grow, often into hideous
men and women a sort of human vultures sitting
on their fathers' pockets and screaming 'Give! Give!'
The prospect does not attract me! And she? In-
nocent? I don't think I could bear to watch that
little flower-like face gradually enlarging into ma-
tronly lines and spreading into a double chin ! Those
pretty eyes peering into the larder and considering
the appearance of uncooked bacon! Perish the
thought ! One might as well think of Shakespeare's
Juliet paying the butcher's bill, or worse still, se-
lecting the butcher's meat! Forbid it, ye heavens!
Of course if ideals could be realised, which they never
are, I can see myself wedded for pure love, without a
care, painting my pictures at ease, with a sweet
woman worshipping me, ever at my beck and call,
and shielding me from trouble with all the tender
force of her passionate little soul! but common-
366 INNOCENT
place life will not fit itself into these sort of beatific
visions! Babies, and the necessary provision of
food and clothes and servants this is what mar-
riage means love having sobered down to a matter-
of-fact conclusion. No no! I will not marry her!
It would be like catching a fairy in the woods, cut-
ting off its sunbeam wings and setting it to scrub
the kitchen floor!"
It was curious that while he pleased himself with
this fanciful soliloquy it did not occur to him that
he had already caught the "fairy in the woods," and
ever since the capture had been engaged in cutting
off its "sunbeam wings" with all a yivisector's scien-
tific satisfaction. And in his imaginary pictures of
what might have been if "ideals" were realised, he
did not for a moment conceive himself as "worship-
ping" the woman who was to worship him, or as
being at her "beck and call," or as shielding her from
trouble oh no ! He merely considered himself, and
how she would care for him, never once did he
consider how he would care for her.
Meanwhile things went on in an outwardly even
and uneventful course. Innocent worked steadily to
fulfil certain contracts into which she had entered
with the publishers who were eager to obtain as
much of her work as she could give them, but she
had lost heart, and her once soaring ambition was
like a poor bird that had been clumsily shot at, and
had fallen to the ground with a broken wing. What
she had dreamed of as greatness, now seemed vain
and futile. The "Amadis de Jocelin" of the six-
teenth century had taught her to love literature
to believe in it as the refiner of thought and expres-
sion, and to use it as a charm to inspire the mind and
uplift the soul, but the Amadis de Jocelyn of the
twentieth had no such lessons to teach. Utterly
lacking in reverence for great thinkers, he dismissed
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 36T.
the finest passages of poetry or prose from his con-
sideration with light scorn as "purple patches,"
borrowing that hackneyed phrase from the lower
walks of the press, the most inspired writers, both
of ancient and modern times, came equally under the
careless lash of his derision, so that Innocent, ut-
terly bewildered by his sweeping denunciation of
many brilliant and famous authors, shrank into her
wounded self with pain, humiliation and keen dis-
appointment, feeling that there was certainly no
chance for her to appeal to him in any way through
the thoughts she cherished and expressed with
truth and fervour to a listening world. That world
listened but he did not! therefore the world
seemed worthless and its praise mere mockery. She
had no vanity to support her, she was not "strong-
minded" enough to oppose her own individuality
to that of the man she loved. And so she began to
droop a little, her bright and ardent spirit sank like
a sinking flame, much to the concern of Miss Leigh,
who watched her with a jealous tenderness of love
beyond all expression. The child of Pierce Armitage,
lawfully or unlawfully begotten, was now to her the
one joy of existence, the link that fastened her
more closely to life, and she worried herself se-
cretly over the evident listlessness, fatigue and de-
pression of the girl who had so lately been the very
embodiment of happiness. But she did not like to
ask questions, she knew that Innocent had a very
resolute mind of her own, and that if she elected to
remain silent on any subject whatsoever, nothing,
not even the most affectionate appeal, would induce
her to speak.
"You will not let her come to any harm, Pierce!"
murmured the old lady prayerfully one day, stand-
ing before the portrait of her former and faithless
lover "You will step in if danger threatens her!
368 INNOCENT
yes, I am sure you will! You will guide and help
her again as you have guided and helped her before.
For I believe you brought her to me, Pierce! yes,
I am sure you did! In that other world where you
are, you have learned how much I loved you long
ago! how much I love you now! and how I love
your child for your sake as well as for her own ! All
wrongs and mistakes are forgiven and forgotten,
Pierce! and when we meet again we shall under-
stand!"
And with her little trembling worn hands she set
a rose, just opening its deep red heart-bud into
flower, in a crystal vase beside the portrait as a kind
of votive offering, with something of the same super-
stitious feeling that induces a devout Roman Cath-
olic to burn a candle before a favourite saint, in the
belief that the spirit of the dead man heard her
words and would respond to them.
Just at this time, Innocent went about a good deal
among the few friends who had learned to know her
well and to love her accordingly. Lord Blythe was
still away, having prolonged his tour in order to en-
joy the beauty of the Italian lakes in autumn. Sum-
mer in England was practically over, but the weather
was fine and warm still, and country-house parties,
especially in Scotland, were the order of the day.
The "social swim" was subsiding, and what are called
"notable" people were beginning to leave town.
Once or twice, infected by the general exodus, In-
nocent thought of going down to Briar Farm just for
a few days as a surprise to Priscilla but a feeling for
Robin held her back. It would be needless unkind-
ness to again vex his mind with the pain of a hope-
less passion. So she paid a few casual visits here
and there, chiefly at houses where Amadis de Jocelyn
was also one of the invited guests. She was made the
centre of a considerable amount of adulation, which
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 369
did not move her to any sort of self-satisfaction,
because in the background of her thoughts there
was always the light jest and smile of her lover, who
laughed at praise, except, be it here said, when it
was awarded to himself. Then he did not laugh
he assumed a playful humility which, being admir-
ably acted, almost passed for modesty. But if by
chance he had to listen to any praise of "Ena Armi-
tage" as author or woman, he changed the subject
as soon as he could conveniently do so without
brusquerie. And very gradually it dawned upon her
that he took no pride in her work or in the position
she had won, and that he was more reluctant than
glad to hear her praised. He seemed to prefer she
should be unnoticed, save by himself, and more or
less submissive to his will. Had she been worldly-
wise, she would by every action have moved a silent
protest against this, his particular form of sex-dom-
inance, but she was of too loving a nature to dispute
any right of command he chose to assume. Other
men, younger and far higher in place and position
than Jocelyn, admired her, and made such advances
as they dared, finding her very coldness attractive,
united as it was to such sweetness of manner as
few could resist, but they had no chance with her.
Once or twice some of her women friends had
sounded her on the subject of love and lovers, and
she had put aside all their questions with a smile.
"Love is not to be talked about," she had said "It
is like God, served best in silence,"
But by scarcely perceptible degrees, busy rumour
got hold of a thread or two of the clue leading to the
labyrinth of her mystery, people nodded mysteri-
ously at each other and began to whisper sugges-
tions suggestions which certainly did not go very
far, but just floated in the air like bits of thistle-
down.
370 INNOCENT
"She is having her portrait painted, isn't she?"
"Yes by that man with the queer name Amadis
de Jocelyn."
"Has she given him the commission?"
"Oh no! I believe not. He's painting it for the
French Salon."
"Oh!"
Then there would follow a silence, with an ex-
change of smiles all round. And presently the talk
would begin again.
"Will it be a 'case/ do you think?"
"A 'case'? You mean a marriage? Oh dear
no ! Jocelyn isn't a marrying man."
"Isn't she a little er well! a little taken with
him?"
"Perhaps! Very likely! Clever women are al-
ways fools on one point if not on several!"
"And he? Isn't he very attentive?"
"Not more so than he has been and is to dozens of
other women. He's too clever to show her any
special attention it might compromise him. He's
a man that takes care of Number One!"
So the gossip ran, and only Jocelyn himself
caught wind of it sufficiently to set him thinking.
His "affaire de cceur" had gone far enough, and he
realised that the time had come for him to beat a
retreat. But how to do it? The position was deli-
cate and difficult. If Innocent had been an ordinary
type of woman, vain and selfish, fond of frivolities
and delighting in new conquests, his task would have
been easy, but with a girl who believed in love as
the ultimatum of all good, and who trusted her lover
with implicit faith as next in order of worship to
God, what was to be done?
"We talk a vast amount of sentimental rubbish
about women being pure and faithful!" he solilo-
quised "But when they are pure and faithful we
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 371
are more bored with them than if they were the
worst women in town!"
He had however one subject of congratulation for
which he metaphorically patted himself on the back
as being "a good boy" he had not gone to such
extremes in his love-affair as could result in what is
usually called "trouble" for the girl. He had left
her unscathed, save in a moral and spiritual sense.
The sweet body, with its delicate wavering tints of
white and rose was as the unspoilt sheath of a lily-
bud, no one could guess that within the sheath the
lily itself was blighted and slowly withering. One
may question whether it is not a more cruel thing to
seduce the soul than the body, to crush all the fine
faiths and happy illusions of a fair mind and leave
them scorched by a devastating fire whose traces
shall never be obliterated. Amadis de Jocelyn
would have laughed his gayest and most ironical
laugh at the bare possibility of such havoc being
wrought by the passion of love alone.
"What's the use of loving or remembering any-
thing?" he would exclaim "One loves one tires
of love! and by-and-by one forgets that love ever
existed. I look forward to the time when my mem-
ory shall dwell chiefly on the agreeable entremets of
life a good dinner a choice cigar! These things
never bother you afterwards, unless you eat too
much or smoke too much, then you have headache
and indigestion distinctly your own fault! But if
you love a woman for a time and tire of her after-
wards she always bothers you! reminding you of
the days when you 'once' loved her with persistent
and dreadful monotony! I believe in forgetting,
and 'letting go.' '
With these sentiments, which were the true out-
come of his real self, it was not and never would be
possible for him to conceive that with certain high
872 INNOCENT
and ultra-sensitive natures love is a greater neces-
sity than life itself, and that if they are deprived of
the glory they have been led to imagine they pos-
sessed, nothing can make compensation for what to
them is eternal loss, coupled with eternal sorrow.
Meanwhile Innocent's portrait on which he had
worked for a considerable time was nearly com-
pleted. It was one of the best things he had ever
done, and he contemplated it with a pleasant thrill
of artistic triumph, forgetting the "woman" entirely
in satisfied consideration of the "subject." As a
portrait he realised that it would be the crown of
the next year's Salon, bearing comparison with any
work of the greater modern masters. He was how-
ever a trifle perplexed, and not altogether pleased at
the expression, which, entirely away from his will
and intention, had insensibly thrown a shadow of
sadness on the face, it had come there apparently
of itself, unbidden. He had been particularly proud
of his success in the drawing of the girl's extremely
sensitive mouth, for he had, as he thought, caught
the fleeting sweetness of the smile which was one of
her greatest charms, but now, despite his pains,
that smile seemed to lose itself in the sorrow and
pathos of an unspoken reproach, which, though en-
thralling and appealing to the beholder as the look
of the famous "Mona Lisa," had fastened itself as
it were on the canvas without the painter's act or
consent. He was annoyed at this, yet dared not
touch it in any attempt to alter what asserted itself
as convincingly finished, for the picture was a fine
work of art and he realised that it would add to his
renown.
"I shall not name it as the portrait of a living
woman," he said to himself "I shall call it simply
'Innocent.' '
As he thought this, the subject of the painting
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 373
herself entered the studio. He turned at the sound
of the door opening, and caught a strange new im-
pression of her, an impression that moved him to
a touch of something like fear. Was she going to
be tiresome, he wondered? would she make him a
"scene" or do something odd as women generally
did when their feelings escaped control? Her face
was very pale her eyes startlingly bright, and the
graceful white summer frock she wore, with soft old
lace falling about it, a costume completed in per-
fection by a picturesque Leghorn hat bound with
black velvet and adorned with a cluster of pale
roses, made her a study worthy the brush of many a
greater artist than Amadis de Jocelyn. His quick
eye noted every detail of her dainty dress and fair
looks as he went to meet her and took her hi his
arms. She clung to him for a moment and he felt
her tremble.
"What's the matter?" he asked, with unconscious
sharpness "Is anything wrong?"
She put him away from her tenderly and looked
up smiling but there was a sparkling dew in her
eyes.
"No, my Amadis! Nothing wrong!"
He heaved a quick sigh of relief.
"Thank heaven ! You looked at me as if you had
a grievance all women have grievances but they
should keep them to themselves."
She gave the slightest little shrug of her shoulders ;
then went and sat on the highest step of the familiar
dais where she had posed for her picture, and waited
a moment. He did not at once come to sit beside
her as he had so often done he stood opposite his
easel, looking at her portrait but not at her.
"I have no grievance," she said then, making an
effort to steady her voice, which trembled despite
herself "And if I had I should not vex you with it.
374 INNOCENT
But when you can quite spare the time I should
like a quiet little talk with you."
He looked round at her with a kind smile.
"Just what I want to have with you ! 'Les beaux
esprits se rencontrent' and we both want exactly
the same thing! Dear little girl, how sensible you
are ! Of course we must talk about the future."
A lovely radiance lit up her face.
"That is what I thought you would wish," she
said "Now that the portrait is finished."
"Well, all but a touch or two," he rejoined
"I shall ask a few people to come here and see it
before it leaves London. Then it must be property
packed in readiness for Paris before before I
go "
o
Her eyes opened in sudden terrified wonderment.
"Before you go where?"
He laughed a little awkwardly.
"Oh only a short journey on business I will
explain when we have our talk out not now in a
day or two "
He left the easel, and coming to where she sat,
lifted her in his arms and folded her close to his
breast.
"You sweet soul!" he murmured "You little
Innocent! You are so pretty to-day! you madden
me -"
He unfastened her hat and put it aside, then
drawing her closer, showered quick eager kisses on
her lips, eyes and warm soft neck. He felt her
heart beating wildly and her whole body trembling
under his gust of passion.
"You love me- you truly love me?" she ques-
tioned, between little sighs of pleasure "Tell me!
are you sure?"
"Am I not proving it?" he answered "Does a
man behave like this if he does not love?"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 375
"Ah, yes!" And she looked up with a wild pit-
eousness in her sweet eyes "A man will behave
like this to any woman!"
He loosened his clasp of her, astonished then
laughed.
"Where did you learn that?" he asked "Who
told you men were so volatile?"
"No one!" and her caressing arms fell away
from him "My Amadis, you find it pleasant to kiss
and to embrace me for the moment but perhaps
not always will you care! Love real love is dif-
ferent "
"What do you mean by love?" he asked still
smiling.
She sighed.
"I can hardly tell you," she said "But one thing
I do know love would never hurt or wrong the
thing it loved! Words, kisses, embraces they are
just the sweet outflow of a great deep! but love is
above and beyond all these, like an angel living with
God!"
He was silent.
She came up to him and laid her little hand tun-
idly on his arm.
"It is time we were quite sure of that angel, my
Amadis!" she said "We are sure but "
He looked her full and quietly in the eyes.
"Yes, child!" he answered "It is time! But I
cannot talk about angels or anything else just now
it is growing late in the afternoon and you must
not stay here too long. Come to-morrow or next
day, and we'll consult together as to what is best to
be done for your happiness "
"For yours!" she interposed, gently.
He smiled, curiously.
"Very well! As you will! For mine!"
CHAPTER X
LORD BLYTHE stood at the open window of his
sitting-room in the Grand Hotel at Bellaggio
a window opening out to a broad balcony and com-
manding one of the most enchanting views of the
lake and mountains ever created by Divine Benefi-
cence for the delight of man. The heavenly scene,
warm with rich tints of morning in Italy, glowed
like a jewel in the sun : picturesque boats with little
red and blue awnings rocked at the edge of the calm
lake, in charge of their bronzed and red-capped boat-
men, waiting for hire, the air was full of fragrance,
and every visible thing appealed to beauty-loving
eyes with exquisite and irresistible charm. His at-
tention, however, had wandered far from the en-
joyable prospect, he was reading and re-reading a
letter he had just received from Miss Leigh, in which
certain passages occurred which caused him some
uneasiness. On leaving England he had asked her
to write regularly, giving him all the news of Inno-
cent, and she had readily undertaken what to her
was a pleasing duty. His thoughts were constantly
with the little house in Kensington, where the young
daughter of his dead friend worked so patiently to
bring forth the fruits of her genius and live inde-
pendently by their results, and his intense sympathy
for the difficult position in which she had been placed
through no fault of her own and the courage with
which she had surmounted it, was fast deepening
into affection. He rather encouraged this sentiment
in himself with the latent hope that possibly when
376
he returned to England she might still be persuaded
to accept the position he was so ready to offer her
that of daughter to him and heiress, and just now
he was troubled by an evident anxiety which be-
trayed itself in Miss Leigh's letter anxiety which
she plainly did her best to conceal, but which nev-
ertheless made itself apparent.
"The dear child works incessantly," she wrote,
"but she is very quiet and seems easily tired. She
is not as bright as she used to be, and looks very
pale, so that I fear she is doing too much, though
she says she is perfectly well and happy. We had a
call from Mr. John Harrington the other afternoon
I think you know him and he seemed quite to
think with me that she is over-working herself. He
suggested that I should persuade her to go for a
change somewhere, either with me or with other
friends. I wonder if you would care for us to join
you at the Italian Lakes? If you would I might
be able to manage it. I have not mentioned the
idea to her yet, as I know she is finishing some work
but she tells me it will all be done in a few days,
and that then she will take a rest. I hope she will,
for I'm sure she needs it."
Another part of the letter ran as follows :
"I rather hesitate to mention it, but I think so
many prolonged sittings for her portrait to that
painter with the strange name, Amadis de Jocelyn,
have rather tired her out. The picture is finished
now, and I and a few friends went to see it the other
day. It is a most beautiful portrait, but very sad !
and it is wonderful how the likeness of her father
as he was in his young 'days comes out in her face!
She and Mr. de Jocelyn are very intimate friends
and some people say he is in love with her! Per-
haps he may be! but I do hope she is not in love
with him!"
378 INNOCENT
Lord Blythe took off his spectacles, folded up the
letter and put it in his pocket. Then he looked out
towards the lake and the charming picture it pre-
sented. How delightful it would be to see Innocent
in one of those dainty boats scattered about near
the water's edge, revelling with all the keenness of
a bright, imaginative temperament in the natural
loveliness around her! Young, and with the promise
of a brilliant career opening out before her, happi-
ness seemed ready and waiting to bless and to adorn
the life of the little deserted girl who, left alone in
the world, had nevertheless managed to win the
world's hearing through the name she had made for
herself yet now yes! now there was the cruel
suggestion of a shadow an ugly darkness like a
black cloud, blotting the fairness of a blue sky,
and Blythe felt an uncomfortable sense of premoni-
tion and wrong as the thought of Amadis de Jocelyn
came into his head and stayed there. What was he
that he should creep into the unspoiled sphere of
a woman's opening life? A painter, something of
a genius in his line, but erratic and unstable in his
character, known more or less for several "affairs
of gallantry" which had slipped off his easy con-
science like water off a duck's back, not a highly
cultured man by any means, because ignorant of
many of the finer things in art and letters, and
without any positively assured position. Yet, un-
doubtedly a man of strong physical magnetism and
charm fascinating in his manner, especially on
first acquaintance, and capable of overthrowing
many a stronger citadel than the tender heart of
a sensitive girl like Innocent, who by a most curious
mischance had been associated all her life with the
romance of his mediaeval name and lineage.
"Yes of course she must come out here," Blythe
decided, after a few minutes' cogitation. "I'll send
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 379
a wire to Miss Leigh this morning and follow it up
by a letter to the child herself, urging her to join
me. The change and distraction will perhaps save
her from too much association with Jocelyn, I do
not trust that man never have trusted him! Poor
little girl! She shall not have her spirit broken if
I can help it."
He stayed yet another few minutes at the open
window, and taking out a cigar from his case began
to light it. While doing this his eye was suddenly
caught by the picturesque, well-knit figure of a man
sitting easily on a step near the clustering boats
gathered close to the hotel's special landing place.
He was apparently one of the many road-side artists
one meets everywhere about the Italian Lakes, ready
to paint a sunset or moonlight on Como or Maggiore
on commission at short notice for a few francs. He
was not young his white hair and grizzled mous-
tache marked the unpleasing passage of resistless
time, yet there was something lissom and graceful
about him that suggested a kind of youth in age.
His attire consisted of much worn brown trousers
and a loose white shirt kept in place by a red belt,
his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, dis-
playing thin brown muscular arms, expressive of
energy, and he wore a battered brown hat which
might once have been of the so-called "Homburg"
shape, but which now resembled nothing ever seen
in the way of ordinary head-gear. He was busily
engaged in sketching a view of the lake and the op-
posite mountains, evidently to the order of some
fashionably dressed women who stood near him
watching the rapid and sure movements of his
brush he had his box of water-colours beside him,
and smiled and talked as he worked. Lord Ely the
watched him with lively interest, while enjoying the
first whiffs of his lately lit cigar.
380 INNOCENT
"A clever chap, evidently!" he thought. "These
Italians are all artists and poets at heart. When
those women have finished with him I'll get him to
do a sketch for me to send to Innocent just to
show her the loveliness of the place. She'll be de-
lighted ! and it may tempt her to come here."
He waited a few minutes longer, till he saw the
artist hand over the completed drawing to his lady
patrons, one of whom paid him with a handful of
silver coin. Something in the bearing and attitude
of the man as he rose from the step where he had
been seated and lifted his shapeless brown hat to
his customers in courteous acknowledgment of their
favours as they left him, struck Blythe with an odd
sense of familiarity.
"I must have seen him somewhere before," he
thought. "In Venice, perhaps or Florence these
fellows are like gipsies, they wander about every-
where."
He sauntered out of the Hotel into the garden
and from the garden down to the landing-place,
where he slowly approached the artist, who was
standing with his back towards him, slipping his
lately earned francs into his trouser pocket. Sev-
eral sample drawings were set up in view beside
him, lovely little studies of lake and mountain
which would have done honour to many a Royal
Academician, and Blythe paused, looking at these
with wonder and admiration before speaking, un-
aware that the artist had taken a backward glance
at him of swift and more or less startled recog-
nition.
"You are an admirable painter, my friend!" he
said, at last speaking in Italian of which he was a
master. "Your drawings are worth much more than
you are asking for them. Will you do one specially
for me?"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 381
"I've done a good many for you in my time,
Blythe!" was the half-laughing answer, given in
perfect English. "But I don't mind doing another."
And he turned round, pushing his cap off his
brows, and showing a wonderfully handsome face,
worn with years and privation, but fine and noble-
featured and full of the unquenchable light which
is given by an indomitable and enduring spirit.
Lord Blythe staggered back and caught at the
handrail of the landing steps to save himself from
falling.
"My God!" he gasped. "You! You, of all men
in the world! You! you, Pierce Armitage!"
And he stared wildly, his brain swimming, his
pulses beating hammer-strokes was it could it be
possible? The artist in brown trousers and white
shirt straightened himself, and instinctively sought
to assume a less tramp-like appearance, looking at
his former friend meanwhile with a half-glad, half-
doubtful air.
"Well, well, Dick!" he said, after a moment's
pause "Don't take it badly that you find me pur-
suing my profession in this peripatetic style! It's
a nice life better than being a pavement artist in
Pimlico ! You mustn't be afraid ! I'm not going to
claim acquaintance with you before the public eye
you, a peer of the realm, Dick ! No, no ! I won't
shame you . . ."
"Shame me!" Blythe sprang forward and caught
his hand in a close warm grip. "Never say that,
Pierce! You know me better! Thank God you are
here alive! thank God I have met you! "
He stopped, too overcome to say another word,
and wrung the hand he held with unconscious fer-
vour, tears springing to his eyes. The two looked
full at each other, and Armitage smiled a little con-
fusedly.
382 INNOCENT
"Why, Dick!" he began, then turning his head
quickly he glanced up at the clear blue sky to hide
and to master his own emotion "I believe we feel
like a couple of sentimental undergrads still, Dick,
in spite of age and infirmities!"
He laughed forcedly, while Blythe, at last releas-
ing his hand, took him by the arm, regardless of
the curious observation of some of the hotel guests
who were strolling about the garden and terraces.
"Come with me, Pierce," he said, in hurried ner-
vous accents "I have news for you such news as
you cannot guess or imagine. Put away all those
drawings and come inside the hotel to my
room "
"What? In this guise?" and Armitage shook
his head "My dear fellow, your enthusiasm is
running away with you! Besides there is some
one else to consider "
"Some one else? Whom do you mean?" de-
manded Blythe with visible impatience.
Armitage hesitated.
"Your wife," he said, at last.
Blythe looked him steadily in the eyes.
"My wife is dead."
"Dead!" Armitage loosened his arm from the
other's hold, and stood inert as though he had re-
ceived a numbing blow. "Dead! When did she
die?"
In a few words Blythe told him.
Armitage heard in silence. Mechanically he be-
gan to collect his drawings and put them in a port-
folio. His face was pale under its sunbrowned tint,
his expression almost tragic. Lord Blythe watched
him for a moment, moved by strong heart-beats of
affection and compassion.
"Pierce," he then said, in a low tone "I know
everything!"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 383
Armitage turned on him sharply.
"You you know? What? How? "
"She Maude told me all," said Blythe, gently
"And I think your wrong to her was not so blame-
worthy as her wrong to you! But I have some-
thing to tell you of one whose wrong is greater than
hers or yours one who is Innocent!"
He emphasised the name, and Armitage started
as though struck with a whip.
"Innocent!" he muttered "The child yes!
but I couldn't make enough to send money for it
after a while I paid as long as I could "
He trembled, his fine eyes had a strained look of
anguish in them.
"Not dead too?" he said "Surely not the people
at the farm had a good name they would not be
cruel to a child '
Blythe gripped him by the arm.
"Come," he said "We cannot talk here there
are too many people about I must have you to
myself. Never mind your appearance many an
R. A. cuts a worse figure than you do for the sake
of 'pose'! You are entirely picturesque" and he
relieved his pent-up feelings by a laugh "And
there's nothing strange in your coming to my room
to see the particular view I want from my win-
dows."
Thus persuaded, Armitage gathered his drawings
and painting materials together, and followed his
friend, who quickly led the way into the Hotel. The
gorgeously liveried hall-porter nodded familiarly to
the artist, whom he had seen for several seasons
selling his work on the landing, and made a good-
natured comment on his "luck" in having secured
the patronage of a rich English "Milor," but other-
wise little notice was taken of the incongruous
couple as they passed up the stairs to "Milor's" pri-
384 INNOCENT
vate rooms on the first floor, where, as soon as they
entered, Blythe shut and locked the door.
"Now, Pierce, I have you!" he said, affectionately
taking him by the shoulders and pushing him
towards a chair. "Why, in heaven's name, did you
never let me know you were alive? Everyone
thought you were dead years and years ago!"
Armitage sat down, and taking off his cap, passed
'his hand through his thick crop of silvery hair.
"I spread that report myself," he said. "I wanted
to get out of it all to give up! to forget that such
a place as London existed. I was sick to death of
it! of its conventions, and vile hypocrisies its
'bounders' in art as in everything else! besides, I
should have been in the way Maude was tired of
me "
He broke off, with an abstracted look.
"You know all about it, you say?" he went on
after a pause "She told you "
"She told me the night she died," answered Blythe
quietly "After a silence of nearly twenty years!"
Armitage gave a short, sharp sigh.
"Women are strange creatures ! " he said. "I don't
think they know when they are loved. I loved her
much more than she knew, she seemed to me the
most beautiful thing on earth ! and when she asked
me to run away with her "
"She asked you?"
"Yes of course! Do you think I would have
taken her against her own wish and will? She
suggested and planned the whole thing and I was
mad for her at the time even now those weeks we
passed together seem to me the only real living of
my life! I thought she loved me as I loved her
and if she had married me, as I begged her to do, I
believe I should have done something as a painter,
something great, I mean. But she got tired of my
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 385
'art-jargon/ as she called it and she couldn't bear
the idea of having to rough it a bit before I could
hope to make any large amount of money. Then I
was disappointed and I told her so and she was
disappointed, and she told me so and we quarrelled
but when I heard a child was to be born, I urged
her again to marry me "
"And she refused?" interposed Ely the.
"She refused. She said she intended to make a
rich marriage and live in luxury. And she declared
that if I ever loved her at all, the only way to prove
it was to get rid of the child. I don't think she would
have cared if I had been brute enough to kill it."
Blythe gave a gesture of horror.
"Don't say that, man! Don't think it!"
Armitage sighed.
"Well, I can't help it, Blythe! Some women go
callous when they've had their fling. Maude was
like that. She didn't care for me any more, she
saw nothing in front of her but embarrassment and
trouble if her affair with me was found out and as
it was all in my hands I did the best I could think of,
took the child away and placed it with kind coun-
try folks and removed myself from England and
out of Maude's way altogether. The year after I
came abroad I heard she had married you, rather
an unkind turn of fate, you being my oldest friend!
and this was what made me resolve to 'die' that
is, to be reported dead, so that she might have no
misgivings about me or my turning up unexpectedly
to cause you any annoyance. I determined to lose
myself and my name too no one knows me here as
Pierce Armitage, I'm Pietro Corri for all the Eng-
lish amateur art-lovers in Italy!"
He laughed rather bitterly.
"I think I lost a good deal more than myself and
my name!" he went on. "I believe if I had stayed
386 INNOCENT
in England I should have won something of a repu-
tation. But you see, I really loved Maude in a
stupid man's way of love, I didn't want to worry
her or remind her of her phase of youthful madness
with meor cause scandal to her in any way "
"But did you ever think of the child?" inter-
rupted Blythe, suddenly.
Armitage looked up.
"Think of it? Of course I did! The place where
I left it was called Briar Farm, a wonderful old
sixteenth-century house I made a drawing of it
once when the apple-blossom was out and the
owner of it, known as Farmer Jocelyn, had a wonder-
ful reputation hi the neighbourhood for integrity and
kindness. I left the child with him one stormy
night in autumn saying I would come back for it
of course I never did but for twelve years I sent
money for it from different places in Europe and
before I left England I told Maude where it was, in
case she ever wanted to see it not that such an
idea would ever occur to her! I thought the prob-
abilities were that the farmer, having no children of
his own, would be likely to adopt the one left on
his hands, and that she would grow up a happy,
healthy country lass, without a care, and marry some
good, sound, simple rustic fellow. But you know
everything, I suppose! or so your looks imply. Is
the child alive?"
Lord Blythe held up his hand.
"Now, Pierce, it is my turn," he said "Your
share in the story I already knew in part but one
thing you have not told me one wrong you have
not confessed."
"Oh, there are a thousand wrongs I have com-
mitted," said Armitage, with a slight, weary gesture.
"Life and love have both disappointed me and I
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 387
suppose when that sort of thing happens a man goes
more or less to the dogs
"Life and love have disappointed a good many
folks," said Blythe "Women perhaps more than
men. And one woman especially, who hardly mer-
ited disappointment one who loved you very truly,
Pierce! have you any idea who it is I mean?"
Armitage moved restlessly, a slight flush col-
oured his face.
"You mean Lavinia Leigh?" he said "Yes I be-
haved like a cad. I know it! But I could not
help myself. Maude drew me on with her lovely
eyes and smile! And to think she is dead! all that
beauty in the grave! cold and mouldering!" He
covered his eyes with one hand, and a visible tremor
shook him. "Somehow I have always fancied her
as young as ever and endowed with a sort of earthly
immortality! She was so bright, so imperious, so
queen-like! You ask me why I did not let you
know I was living? Blythe, I would have died in
very truth by my own hand rather than trouble her
peace in her married life with you!" He paused
then glanced up at his friend, with the wan flicker
of a smile "And do you know Lavinia Leigh?"
"I do," answered Blythe "I know and honour
her! And your daughter is with her now!"
Armitage sprang up.
"My daughter! With Lavinia! No! impossible
incredible ! "
"Sit down again, Pierce," and Lord Blythe him-
self drew up a chair close to Armitage "Sit down
and be patient! You know the lines There's a
divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how
we will'? Divinity has worked in strange ways with
you, Pierce! and still more strangely with your
child. Will you listen while I tell you all?"
Armitage sank into his chair, his hands trembled
388 INNOCENT
he was greatly agitated, and his eyes were fixed
on his friend's face in an eager passion of appeal.
"I will listen as if you were an angel speaking,
Dick!" he said. "Let me know the worst! or the
best of everything!"
And Blythe, in a low quiet voice, thrilled in its
every accent by the affection and sympathy of his
honest spirit, told him the whole story of Innocent
of her sweetness and prettiness of her grace and
genius of the sudden and brilliant fame she had
won as "Ena Armitage" of the brief and bitter
knowledge she had been given of her mother of her
strange chance in going straight to the house of Miss
Leigh when she travelled alone and unguided from
the country to London and lastly of his own ad-
miration for her courage and independence, and his
desire to adopt her as a daughter in order to leave
her his fortune.
"But now you have turned up, Pierce, I resign
my hopes in that direction!" he concluded, with a
smile. "You are her father! and you may well be
proud of such a daughter! And there is a duty
staring you in the face a duty towards her which,
when once performed, will release her from a good
deal of pain and perplexity you know what it is?"
"Rather!" and Armitage rose and began pacing
to and fro "To acknowledge and legalise her as
my child! I can do this now and I will! I can
declare she was born in wedlock, now Maude is dead
for no one will ever know. The real identity of
her mother" he paused and came up to Blythe,
resting his hands on his shoulders "the real iden-
tity of her mother is and shall ever be our secret!"
There was a pause. Then Armitage's mellow
musical voice again broke the silence.
"I can never thank you, Blythe!" he said "You
blessed old man as you are! You seem to me like
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 389
a god disguised in a tweed suit ! You have changed
life for me altogether! I must cease to be a wan-
dering scamp on the face of the earth! I must try
to be worthy of my fair and famous daughter! How
strange it seems! Little Innocent! the poor baby
I left to the mercies of a farm-yard training! for
her I must become respectable! I think I'll even
try to paint a great picture, so that she isn't ashamed
of her Dad! What do you say? Will you help
me?"
He laughed, but there were great tears in his
eyes. They clasped hands silently.
Then Lord Blythe spoke in a light tone.
"I'll wire to Miss Leigh this morning," he said.
"I'll ask her to come out here with Innocent as soon
as possible. I won't break the news of you to them
yet it would quite overpower Miss Leigh it might
almost kill her '
"Why, how?" asked Armitage.
"With joy!" answered Blythe. "Hers is a faith-
ful soul!"
He waited a moment then went on:
"I'll prepare the way cautiously in a letter it
would never do to blurt the whole thing out at once.
I'll tell Innocent I have a very great and delightful
surprise awaiting her "
"Oh, very great and delightful indeed!" echoed
Armitage with a sad little laugh. "The discovery
of a tramp father with only a couple of shirts to his
back and a handful of francs in his pocket!"
"My dear chap, what does that matter?" and
Blythe gave him a light friendly blow on the
shoulder. "We can put all these exterior matters
right in no time. Trust me! Are we not old
friends? You have come back from death, as it
seems, just when your child may need you she does
need you every young girl needs some protector
390 INNOCENT
in this world, especially when her name has become
famous, and a matter of public talk and curiosity.
Ah! I can already see her joy when she throws her
arms around your neck and says 'My father!' I
would gladly change places with you for that one
exquisite moment!"
They stayed together all that day and night. Lord
Blythe sent his wire to Miss Leigh, and wrote his
letter, then both men settled down, as it were, to
wait. Armitage went off 'for two days to Milan, and
returned transformed in dress, looking the very beau-
ideal of an handsome Englishman, and the people
at Bellaggio who had known him as the wandering
landscape painter "Pietro Corri" failed to recognise
him now in his true self.
"Yes," said Blythe again, with the fine unselfish-
ness which was part of his nature, when at the end
of one of their many conversations concerning Inno-
cent, he had gone over every detail he could think
of which related to her life and literary success
"When she comes she will give you all her heart,
Pierce ! She will be proud and glad, she will think
of no one but her beloved father! She is like that!
She is full of an unspent love you will possess
it all!"
And in his honest joy for the joy of others, he
never once thought of Amadis de Jocelyn.
CHAPTER XI
IT was a gusty September afternoon in London,
and autumn had given some unpleasing signs of its
early presence in the yellow leaves that flew whirl-
ing over the grass in Kensington Gardens and other
open spaces where trees spread their kind boughs to
the rough and chilly wind. A pretty little elm in
Miss Leigh's tiny garden was clothed in gold instead
of green, and shook its glittering foliage down with
every breath of air like fairy coins minted from the
sky. Innocent, leaning from her study window,
watched the falling brightness with an unwilling
sense of pain and foreboding.
"Summer is over, I'm afraid!" she sighed
"Such a wonderful summer it has been for me!
the summer of my life the summer of my love!
Oh, dear summer, stay just a little longer!"
And the verse of a song, sung so often as to have
become hackneyed, rang in her ears
"Falling leaf and fading tree,
Lines of white in a sullen sea,
Shadows rising on you and me
The swallows are making them ready to fly,
Wheeling out on a windy sky:
Good-bye, Summer! Good-bye, good-bye!"
She shivered, and closed the window. She was
dressed for going out, and her little motor-brougham
waited for her below. Miss Leigh had gone to lunch
and to spend the afternoon with some old friends
residing out of town, an unusual and wonderful
391
392 INNOCENT
thing for her to do, as she seldom accepted invita-
tions now where Innocent was not concerned, but
the people who had asked her were venerable folk
who could not by the laws of nature be expected to
live very much longer, and as they had known La-
vinia Leigh from girlhood she considered it some-
what of a duty to go and see them when, as in this
instance, they earnestly desired it. Moreover she
knew Innocent had her own numerous engagements
and was never concerned at being left alone es-
pecially on this particular afternoon when she had
an appointment with her publishers, and another
appointment afterwards, of which she said nothing,
even to herself. She had taken more than usual
pains with her attire, and looked her sweetest in a
soft dove-coloured silk gown gathered about her
slight figure in cunning folds of exquisite line and
drapery, while the tender gold of her hair shone like
ripening corn from under the curved brim of a grace-
ful "picture" hat of black velvet, adorned with one
drooping pale grey plume. A small knot of roses
nestled among the delicate lace on her bodice, and
the diamond dove-pendant Lord Blythe had given
her sparkled like a frozen sunbeam against the ivory
whiteness of her throat. She glanced at herself in
the mirror with a smile, wondering if "he" would
be pleased with her appearance, "he" had been
what is called "difficult" of late, finding fault with
some of the very points of her special way of dress
which he had once eagerly admired. But she at-
tributed his capricious humour to fatigue and irri-
tability from "over-strain" that convenient ail-
ment which is now-a-days brought in as a disguise
for mere want of control and bad temper. "He has
been working so hard to finish his portrait of me!"
she thought, tenderly "Poor fellow! he must have
got quite tired of looking at my face!"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 393
She glanced round her study to see that everything
was in order and then took up a neatly tied parcel
of manuscript her third book completed. She
had a fancy one of many, equally harmless, that
she would like to deliver it herself to the publishers
rather than send it by post, on this day of all days,
when plans for the future were to be discussed with
her lover and everything settled for their mutual
happiness. Her heart grew light with joyous antici-
pation as she ran downstairs and nodded smilingly
at the maid Rachel, who stood ready at the door to
open it for her passing.
"If Miss Leigh comes home before I do, tell her I
will not be long," she said, as she stepped into her
brougham and was whirled away.
At the office of her publishers she was expected
and received with eager homage. The head of the
firm took the precious packet of manuscript from her
hand with a smile of entire satisfaction.
"You are up to your promised time, Miss Armi-
tage!" he said, kindly "And you must have worked
very hard. I hope you'll give yourself a good long
rest now?"
She laughed, lightly.
"Oh, well! perhaps!" she answered "If I feel
I can afford it! I want to work while I'm young
not to rest. But I think Miss Leigh would like a
change and if she does I'll take her wherever she
wishes to go. She is so kind to me! I can never
do enough for her!"
The publisher looked at her sweet, thoughtful face
curiously.
"Do you never think of yourself?" he asked
"Must you always plan some pleasure for others?"
She glanced at him in quick surprise.
"Why, of course!" she replied "Pleasure for
others is the only pleasure possible to me. I assure
394 INNOCENT
you I'm quite selfish ! I'm greedy for the happiness
of those I love and if they can't or won't be happy
I'm perfectly miserable!"
He smiled, and when she left, escorted her him-
self out of his office to her brougham with a kind
friendliness that touched her.
"You won't let me call you a brilliant author,"
he said, as he shook hands with her "Perhaps it
will please you better if I say you are a true woman!"
Her eyes flashed up a bright gratitude, she waved
her hand in parting as the brougham glided off.
And never to his dying day did that publisher and
man of hard business detail forget the radiance of the
face that smiled at him that afternoon, a face of
light and youth and loveliness, as full of hope arid
faith as the face of a pictured angel kneeling at the
feet of the Madonna with heaven's own glory en-
circling it in gold.
The quick little motor-brougham seemed unusual-
ly slow-going that afternoon. Innocent, with her full
happy heart and young pulsing blood, grew impa-
tient with its tardy progress, yet, as a matter of fact,
it travelled along at its most rapid speed. The well-
known by-street near Holland Park was reached at
last, and while the brougham went off to an accus-
tomed retired corner chosen by the chauffeur to
await her pleasure, she pushed open the gate of the
small garden leading to the back entrance of Joce-
lyn's studio a garden now looking rather damp and
dreary, strewn as it was with wet masses of fallen
leaves. It was beginning to rain and she ran
swiftly along the path to the familiar door which
she opened with her private key. Jocelyn was
working at his easel he heard the turn of the lock
and looked round. She entered, smiling but he
did not at once go and meet her. He was finishing
off some special touch of colour over which he bent
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 395
with assiduous care, and she was far too unselfishly
interested in his work to disturb him at what seemed
to be an anxious moment. So she waited.
Presently he spoke, with a certain irritability in
his tone.
"Are you there? I wish you would come forward
where I can see you!"
She laughed a pretty rippling laugh of kindly
amusement.
"Amadis! If you are a true Knight, it is you
who should turn round and look at me for yourself!"
"But I am busy," he said, with the same sharp-
ness of voice "Surely you see that?"
She made no answer, but moved quietly to a
position where she stood facing him at about an
arm's length. Never had she made a prettier pic-
ture than in that attitude of charming hesitation,
with a tender little smile on her pretty mouth and
a wistful light in her eyes. He laid down his palette
and brushes.
"I must give up work for to-day," he said and
going to her he took her in his arms "You are too
great an attraction for me to resist!" He kissed her
lightly, as he would have kissed a child. "You are
very fascinating this afternoon! Are you bent on
some new conquest?"
She gave him a sweet look.
"Why will you talk nonsense, my Amadis!" she
said "You know I never wish for 'conquests' as
you call them, I only want you! Nothing but
you!"
With his arm about her he drew her to a corner of
the studio, half curtained, where there was a double
settee or couch, comfortably cushioned, and here he
sat down still holding her in his embrace.
"You only want me! Nothing but me!" he re-
396 INNOCENT
peated, softly "Dear little Innocent! Ah! But
I fear I am just what you cannot have!"
She smiled, not understanding.
"What do you mean?" she asked "You always
play with me! Are you not all mine as I am all
yours?"
He was silent. Then he slowly withdrew his arm
from her waist.
"Now, child," he said "listen to me and be good
and sensible! You know this cannot go on."
She lifted her eyes trustfully to his face.
"What cannot go on?" she queried, as softly as
though the question were a caress.
He moved restlessly.
"Why this this love-making, of ours! We
mustn't give ourselves over to sentiment we must
be normal and practical. We must look the thing
squarely in the face and settle on some course that
will be best and wisest for us both "
She trembled a little. Something cold and terri-
fying began to creep through her blood.
"Yes I know," she faltered, nervously "You
said you said we would arrange everything to-
gether to-day."
"True! So I did! Well, I will!" He drew closer
to her and took her little hand in his own. "You
see, dear, we can't live on the heights of ecstasy
for ever" and he smiled, a forced, ugly smile
"We've had a very happy time together, haven't
we?" and he was conscious of a certain nervous-
ness as he felt her soft little body press against him
in answer "But the time has come for us to think
of other things other interests your career, my
future "
She looked up at him in sudden alarm.
"Amadis!" she said "What is it? You frighten
me ! you speak so strangely ! What do you mean?"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 397
"Now if you are unreasonable I shall go away!"
he said, with sudden harshness, dropping her hand
"I shall leave you here by yourself without an-
other word!"
She turned deathly pale then flushed a faint
crimson a sense of giddy faintness overcame her,
she put up her hands to her head tremblingly, and
loosening her hat took it off as though its weight
oppressed her.
"I I am not unreasonable, Amadis," she faltered
"only I don't understand "
"Well, you ought to understand," he answered,
heatedly "A clever little woman like you who writes
books should not want any explanation. You ought
to be able to grasp the whole position at a glance!"
Her breath came and went quickly she tried to
smile.
"I'm afraid I'm very stupid then," she answered,
gently "For I can only see that you seem angry
with me for nothing."
He took her hand again.
"Dear little goose, I am not angry," he said
"If you were to make me a 'scene' I should be angry
very angry! But you won't do that, will you?
It would upset my nerves. And you are such a wise,
independent little person that I feel quite safe with
you. Well, now let us talk sensibly, I've a great
deal to tell you. In the first place, I'm going to
Algiers."
Her lips were dry and stiff, but she managed to
ask
"When?"
"Oh, any time! to-morrow . . . next day be-
fore the week is over, certainly. There are some fine
subjects out there that I want to paint and I feel
I could do good work "
Her hand in his contracted a little, she instinc-
398 INNOCENT
lively withdrew it ... then she heard herself speak-
ing as though it were someone else a long way off.
"When are you coming back?"
"Ah! That's my own affair!" he answered care-
lessly "In the spring perhaps, perhaps not for a
year or two "
"Amadis!"
The name sprang from her lips like the cry of an
animal wounded to death. She rose suddenly from
his side and stood facing him, swaying slightly like
a reed in a cruel wind.
"Well!" he rejoined "You say 'Amadis' as
though it hurt you! What now?"
"Do you mean," she said, faintly "by what
you say, do you mean that we are to part?"
The strained agony in her eyes compelled him to
turn his own away. He got up from the settee and
left her where she stood.
"We must part sooner or later," he answered,
lightly "surely you know that?"
"Surely I know that!" she repeated, with a
bewildered look, then running to him, she caught
his arm "Amadis! Amadis! You don't mean it!
say you don't mean it! You can't mean it, if
you love me! . . . Oh, my dearest! if you love
me! . . ."
She stopped, half choked by a throbbing ache in
her throat, and tottered against him as though
about to fall. Alarmed at this he caught her round
the waist to support her.
"Of course I love you!" he said, hurriedly
"When you are good and reasonable! not when
you behave like this ! If I don't love you, it will be
quite your own fault "
"My own fault?" she murmured, sobbingly "My
own fault? Amadis! What have I done?"
"What have you done? It's what you are doing
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 399
that matters! Giving way to temper and making
me uncomfortable! Do you call that 'love'?"
She dropped her hand from his arm and drew
herself away from him. She was trembling from
head to foot.
"Please please don't misunderstand me!" she
stammered, like a frightened child "I I have
no temper! I I feel nothing I only want to
please you to know what you wish "
She broke off her eyes, lifted to his, had a strange,
wild stare, but he was too absorbed in his own par-
ticular and personal difficulty to notice this. He
went on, speaking rapidly
"If you want to please me you will first of all be
perfectly normal," he said "Make up your mind to
be calm and good-natured. I cannot stand an emo-
tional woman all tantrums and tears. I like good
sense and good manners. You ought to have both,
with all the books you have read "
She gave a sudden low laugh, empty of mirth.
"Books!" she echoed and raising her arms above
her head she let them drop again at her sides with a
gesture of utter abandonment. "Ah yes! Books!
Books by the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin!"
Her hair was ruffled and fell about her face,
her cheeks had flamed into a feverish red. The
tragic beauty of her expression annoyed him.
"Your hair is coming down," he said, with a coldly
critical smile "You look like a Bacchante!"
She paid no attention to this remark. She was
apparently talking to herself.
"Books!" she said again "Such sweet love-letters
and poems by the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin!"
He grew impatient.
"You're a silly child!" he said "Are you going to
listen to me or not?"
400 INNOCENT
She gazed at him with an almost awful directness.
"I am listening!" she answered.
"Well, don't be melodramatic while you listen!"
he retorted "Be normal!"
She was silent, still gazing fixedly at him.
He turned his eyes away, and taking up one of
his brushes, dipped it in colour and made a great
pretence of working in a bit of sky on his canvas.
"You see, dear child," he resumed, with an unc-
tuous air of patient kindness "your ideas of love
and mine are totally different. You want to b've
in a paradise of romance and tenderness I want
nothing of the sort. Of course, with a sweet caress-
able creature like you it's very pleasant to indulge
in a little folly for a time, and we've had quite
four months of the 'divine rapture' as the poets call
it, four months is a long time for any rapture to
last ! You have yes ! you have amused me ! and
I've made you happy given you something to think
about besides scribbling and publishing yes I'm
sure I have made you happy and, what is much
more to my credit I have taken care of you and left
you unharmed. Think of that! Day after day I
have had you here entirely in my power! and yet
and yet" here he turned his cold blue eyes upon
her with an under-gleam of mockery in their steely
light "you are still Innocent!"
She did not move she scarcely seemed to
breathe.
"That is why I told you it would be a good thing
for you if you accepted Lord Blythe's offer, in his
great position he would be able to marry you well
to some rich fellow with a title" he went on, easily.
"Now I am not a marrying man. Domestic bliss
would not suit me. I have sometimes thought it
would hardly suit you!"
She stirred slightly, as though some invisible crea-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 401
ture had touched her, and held up one little trem-
bling hand.
"Stop!" she said, and her voice though faint was
clear and steady "Do you think can you imagine
that I am of so low and common a nature as to marry
any man, after " She paused, struggling with
herself.
"After what?" he queried, smilingly.
She shuddered, as with keenest cold.
"After your kisses!" she answered "After your
embraces which have held me away from everything
save you! After your caresses oh God! after all
this, do you think I would shame my body
and perjure my soul by giving myself to another
man?"
He almost laughed at her saintty idea of a lover's
chastity.
"Every woman would!" he declared "And I'm
sure every woman does!"
She looked straight before her into vacancy.
"I am net 'every woman,' " she said, slowly "I
am only one unhappy girl!"
He was still dabbing colour on his canvas, but now
threw down his brush and came to her.
"Dear child, why be tragic?" he said "Life is
such a pleasant thing and holds so much for both of
us! I shall always love you if you're good!" and
he laughed, pleasantly "and you can always love
me if you like ! But I cannot marry you I have
never thought of such a thing! Marriage would
not suit me at all. I know, of course, what you
would like. You would like a grand wedding with
lots of millinery and presents, and then a honey-
moon at your old Briar Farm in fact, I daresay
you'd like to buy Briar Farm and imprison me there
for life, along with the dust and ashes of my ances-
tor's long-lost brother but I shouldn't like it ! No,
402 INNOCENT
child! not even you, attractive as you are, could
turn me into a Farmer Jocelyn!"
He tried to take her in his arms, but she drew
herself back from him.
"You speak truly," she said, in a measured, life-
less tone "Nothing could turn you into a Farmer
Jocelyn. For he was an honest man!"
He winced as though a whip had struck him, and
an ugly frown darkened his features.
"He would not have hurt a dog that trusted him,"
she went on in the same monotonous way "He
would not have betrayed a soul that loved him!"
All at once the unnatural rigidity of her face broke
up into piteous, terrible weeping, and she flung her-
self at his feet.
"Amadis, Amadis!" she cried. "It is not it can-
not be you who are so cruel! no, no! it is some
devil that speaks to me not you, not you, my
love, my heart! Oh, say it isn't true! say it isn't
true ! Have mercy mercy ! I love you, I love you !
You are all my life! I cannot live without you!
Amadis ! "
Vexed and frightened for himself at her sudden
wild abandonment of grief, he stooped, and gripping
her by the arm tried to draw her up from the
floor.
"Be quiet!" he said, roughly "I will not have a
scandal here in my studio! You'll bring my man-
servant up in a moment with your stupid noise!
I'm ashamed of you! screaming and crying like a
virago! If you make this row I shall go away!"
"Oh, no, no, no! do not go away!" she moaned,
sobbingly "Have some little pity! Do not leave
me, Amadis! Is everything forgotten so soon?
Think for a moment what you have said to me!
what you have been to me ! I thought you loved me,
dear! yes, I thought you loved me! you told me
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 403
so!" And she held up her little hands to him folded
as in prayer, the tears raining down her cheeks
"But if for some fault of mine you do not love me
any more, kill me now here just where I am!
kill me, Amadis! or tell me to go away and kill
myself I will obey you! but don't don't send
me into the empty darkness of life again all alone!
Oh, no, no! Let me die rather than that! you
would not think unkindly of me if I were dead!"
He took her uplifted hands in his own he began
to be "artistically" interested, with the same sort
of interest Nero might have felt while watching the
effects of some new poison on a tortured slave, and
a slight, very slight sense of regret and remorse
tugged at his tough heart-strings.
"I should think of you exactly as I do now," he
said, resolutely "If you were to kill yourself I
should not pity you in the least! I should say that
though you were a bit of a clever woman, you were
much more of a fool! So you would gain nothing
that way ! You see, I'm sane and sensible you are
not. You are excited and hysterical and don't
know what you are talking about. Yes, child!
that's the fact!" He patted the hands he held con-
solingly, and then let them go. "I wish you'd get
up from the floor and be reasonable! The position
is quite simple and clear. We've had an ideal time
of it together but isn't it Shakespeare who says
'These violent delights have violent ends'? My work
calls me to Algiers yours keeps you in London
therefore we must part but we shall meet again
some day I hope . . ."
She slowly rose to her feet, her sobbing ceased.
"Then you never loved me?" she said "It was
all a lie?"
"I never lie," he answered, coldly "I loved you
for the time being. You amused me."
404 INNOCENT
"And for your 'amusement' you have ruined
me?"
"Ruined you?" He turned upon her in indignant
protest "You must be mad! You have been as
safe with me as in the arms of your mother "
At this she laughed, a shrill little laugh with
tears submerging it.
"You may laugh, but it is true!" he went on,
in a righteously aggrieved tone "I have done you
no harm, on the contrary, you have to thank me
for a great deal of happiness "
She gave a tragic gesture of eloquent despair.
"Oh, yes, I have to thank you!" she said, and
her voice now vibrated with intense and passionate
sorrow "I have to thank you for so much for so
very much indeed! You have been so kind and
good! Yes! And you have never thought of your-
self or your own pleasure at all but only of me!
And I have been as safe with you as in my mother's
arms, . . . yes! you have been quite as careful of
me as she was!" And a wan smile flitted over her
agonised face "All this I have to thank you for!
but you have ruined me just the same not my body,
but my soul!"
He looked at her, she returned his gaze unflinch-
ingly with eyes that glowed like burning stars and
he thought she was, as he put it to himself, "calming
down." He laughed, a little uneasily.
"Soul is an unknown quantity," he said "It
doesn't count."
She seemed not to hear him.
"You have ruined my soul!" she repeated stead-
ily "You have stolen it from God you have made
it all your own for your 'amusement'! What re-
mainder of life have you left to me? Nothing! I
have no hope, no faith, no power to work no am-
bition to fulfil no dreams to realise! You gave
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 405
me love as I thought! and I lived; you take love
from me, and I die!"
He bent his eyes upon her with a kind, almost
condescending gentleness, his personal vanity was
immense, and the utter humiliation of her love for
him flattered the deep sense he had of his own value.
"Dear little goose, you will not die!" he said
"For heaven's sake have done with all this senti-
mental talk! I am not a man who can tolerate it.
You are such a pleasant creature when you are
cheerful and self-possessed, so bright and clever and
companionable and there is no reason why we
shouldn't make love to each other again as often as
we like, but change and novelty are good for both
of us. Come! kiss me! be a good child and let
us part friends!"
He approached her, there was a smile on his lips
a smile in which lurked a suspicion of mockery as
well as victorious self-satisfaction. She saw it and
swiftly there came swooping over her brain the hor-
rible realisation of the truth that it was all over!
that never, never again would she be able to dwell
on the amorous looks and words and love-phrases of
her "Amadis de Jocelyn!" that no happy future
was in store for her with him that he had no in-
terest whatever in her cherished memories of Briar
Farm, and that he would never care to accept the
right of dwelling there even if she secured it for him,
moreover, that he viewed her very work with in-
difference, and had no concern as to her name or
fame so that everything every pretty fancy,
every radiant hope, every happy possibility was at
an end. Life stretched before her dreary as the
dreariest desert for her, whose nature was to love
but once, there was no gleam of light in all the
world's cruel darkness! A red mist swam before her
eyes black clouds seemed descending upon her and
406 INNOCENT
whirling round about her she looked wildly from
right to left, as though seeking to escape from some
invisible pursuer. Startled at her expression Jocelyn
tried to hold her but she shook him off. She made
a few unsteady steps along the floor.
"What is it?" he said "Innocent don't stare
like that!"
She smiled strangely and nodded at him she was
fingering the plant of marguerite daisies that stood
in its accustomed place between the easel and the
wall. She plucked a flower and began hurriedly
stripping off its petals.
"'II m'aime un peu! beaucoup passionement
pas du tout!' Pas du tout!" she cried "Amadis!
Amadis de Jocelyn! You hear what it says? Pas
du tout! You promised it should never come to
that! but it has come!"
She threw away the stripped flower, . . . there
was a quick hot throbbing behind her temples she
put up her hands then all suddenly a sharp invol-
untary scream broke from her lips. He sprang
towards her to seize and silence her she stuffed her
handkerchief into her mouth.
"I'm sorry!" she panted "Forgive! I couldn't
help it! Amadis Amadis! "
And she flung herself against his breast. Her eyes,
large and feverishly brilliant, searched his face for
any sign of tenderness, and searched in vain.
"Say it isn't true!" she whispered "Amadis
oh my love, say it isn't true!" Her little hands
caressed him she drew his head down towards her
and her pleading kiss touched his lips. "Say that
you didn't really mean it! that you love me still
Amadis! you could not be cruel! you will not
break my heart! "
But he was too angry to be pitiful. Her scream
had infuriated him he thought it would alarm the
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT
street, bring up the servant, and give rise to all sorts
of scandal in which he might be implicated, and he
roughly loosened her clinging arms from his neck
and pushed her from him.
"Break your heart!" he exclaimed, bitterly
"I wish I could break your temper! You behave
like a madwoman; I shall go away to my room!
When I come back I expect to find you calm, and
reasonable or else, gone! Remember!"
She stood gazing at him as though petrified. He
swung past her rapidly, and opening the principal
door of the studio passed through it and disappeared.
She ran to it tried to open it it was locked on
the other side. She was alone.
She looked about her bewildered, like a child that
has lost its way. She saw her pretty little velvet
hat on the settee where she had left it, and in a
trembling hurry she put it on then paused. Going
on tip-toe to the easel, she looked vaguely at her
own portrait and smiled.
"You must be good and reasonable!" she said,
waving her hand to it "When you have lost every
thing in the world, you must be calm ! You mustn't
think of love any more! that's only a fancy!
you mustn't no, you mustn't have any fancies or
your dove will fly away! You are holding it to
your heart just now and it seems quite safe but
it will fly away presently yes! it will fly away!"
She lifted the painter's palette and looked curi-
ously at it, then took up the brush, moist with
colour, which Jocelyn had lately used. Softly she
kissed its handle and laid it down again. Then she
waited, with a puzzled air, and listened. There
was no sound. Another moment, and she moved
noiselessly, almost creepingly to the little private
door by which she had always entered the studio,
and unlocking it, slipped out leaving the key in the
408 INNOCENT
lock. It was raining heavily, but she was not con-
scious of this, she had no very clear idea what she
was doing. There was a curious calm upon her,
a kind of cold assertiveness, like that of a dying per-
son who has strength enough to ask for some dear
friend's presence before departing from life. She
walked steadily to the place where her motor-
brougham waited for her, and entered it. The
chauffeur looked at her for orders.
"To Paddington Station," she said "I am going
out of town. Stop at the first telegraph office on
your way."
The man touched his hat. He thought she seemed
very ill, but it was his place to obey instructions,
not to proffer sympathy. At the telegraph office she
got out, moving like one in a dream and sent a wire
to Miss Leigh.
"Am staying with friends out of town. Don't
wait up for me."
Back to the brougham she went, still in a dream-
like apathy, and at Paddington dismissed the chauf-
feur.
"If I want you in the morning, I will let you
know," she said, with matter-of-fact composure, and
turning, was lost at once in the crowd of passengers
pouring into the station.
The man was for a moment puzzled by the pale-
ness of her face and the wildness of her eyes, but
like most of his class, made little effort to think
beyond the likelihood of everything being "all right
to-morrow," and went his way.
Meanwhile Miss Leigh had returned to her house
to find it bereft of its living sunshine. There were
two telegrams awaiting her, one from Lord Bly the,
urging her to start at once with Innocent for Italy
the other from Innocent herself, which alarmed her
by its unusual purport. In all the time she had
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 409
lived with her "god-mother" the girl had never
stayed away a night, and that she was doing so now
worried and perplexed the old lady to an acute de-
gree of nervous anxiety. John Harrington happened
to call that evening, and on hearing what had oc-
curred, became equally anxious with herself, and,
moved by some curious instinct, went, on his way
home, to Jocelyn's studio to ascertain if Innocent
had been there that afternoon. But he knocked and
rang at the door in vain, all was dark and silent.
Amadis de Jocelyn was a wise man in his generation.
When he had returned to confront Innocent again
and find her, as he had suggested, either recovered
from her "temper" and "calm and reasonable" or
else "gone" he had rejoiced to see that she had ac-
cepted the latter alternative. There was no trace of
her save the unlocked private door of the studio,
which he now locked, putting the key in his pocket.
He gave a long breath of relief a sort of "Thank
God that's over!" and arranged his affairs of both
art and business with such dispatch as to leave for
Paris in peace and comfort by the night boat-train.
CHAPTER XII
THAT evening the fitful and gusty wind increased
to a gale which swept the land with devastating force,
breaking down or uprooting great trees that had
withstood the storms of centuries, and torrential rain
fell, laying whole tracts of country under water. All
round the coast the sea was lashed into a tossing
tumult, the waves rolling in like great green walls
of water streaked with angry white as though flashed
with lightning, and the weather reports made the
usual matter-of-fact statement that "Cross-Channel
steamers made rough passages." Winds and waves,
however, had no disturbing effect on the mental or
physical balance of Amadis de Jocelyn, who,
wrapped in a comfortable fur-lined overcoat, sat in
a sheltered corner on the deck of the Calais boat,
smoking a good cigar and congratulating himself on
the ease with which he had slipped out of what
threatened to have been a very unpleasant and em-
barrassing entanglement.
"If she were an ordinary sort of girl it wouldn't
matter so much," he thought " She would be
practical, with sufficient vanity not to care, she
would see more comedy than tragedy in the whole
thing. But with her romantic ideas about love, and
her name in everybody's mouth, I might have got
into the devil's own mess! I wonder where she
went to when she left the studio? Straight home, I
suppose, to Miss Leigh, will she tell Miss Leigh?
No I think not! she's not likely to tell anybody.
410
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 411
She'll keep it all to herself. She's a silly little fool!
but she's she's loyal!"
Yes, she was loyal! Of that there could be no
manner of doubt. Callous and easy-going man of
the world as he had ever been and ever would be,
the steadfast truth and tender devotion of the poor
child moved him to a faint sense of shamed admira-
tion. On the inky blackness of the night he saw her
face, floating like a vision, her little uplifted, pray-
ing hands, he heard her voice, piteously sweet, cry-
ing "Amadis! Amadis! Say you didn't mean it!
say it isn't true! I thought you loved me, dear!
you told me so!"
The waves hissed round the rolling steamer, and
every now and again white tongues of foam darted
at him from the crests of the heaving waters, yet
amid all the shattering roar and turbulence of the
storm, he could not get the sound of that pleading
voice out of his ears.
"Silly little fool!" he repeated over and over
again with inward vexation "Nothing could be
more absurd than her way of looking at life as
though it was only made for love ! Yet she suited
her name! she was really the most 'innocent' crea-
ture I have ever known! And and she loved
me!"
The sea and the wind shrieked at him as the vessel
plunged heavily on her difficult way his nerves,
cool as they were, seemed to himself on edge : and at
certain moments during that Channel passage he
felt a pang of remorse and pity for the young life
on which he had cast an ineffaceable shadow, a life
instinct with truth, beauty, and brightness, just
opening out as it were into the bloom of fulfilled
promise. He had not "betrayed" her in the world's
vulgar sense of betrayal, he had not wronged her
body but he had done far worse, he had robbed
412 INNOCENT
her of her peace of mind. Little by little he had
stolen from the flower of her life its honey of sweet
content, he had checked the active impulses of
her ambition, and as they soared upwards like bright
birds to the sun, had brought them down to the
ground, slain with a mere word of light mockery,
he had led her to judge all things of no value save
himself, and when he had attained to this end he
had destroyed her last dream of happiness by vol-
untarily proving his own insincerity and worthless-
ness.
"It has all been her own fault," he mused, trying
to excuse and to console himself "She fell into
my arms as easily as a ripe peach falls at a touch
that childish fancy about 'Amadis de Jocelin' did
the trick! Curious! very curious that a sixteenth-
century member of my own family tree should be
mixed up in my affair with this girl! Of course
she'll say nothing, there's nothing to say! We've
kept our secret very well, and except for a few
playful suggestions and hints dropped here and
there, nobody knows we were in love with each
other. Then she's got her work to do, it isn't as
if she were an idle woman without an occupation,
and she'll think it down and live it down. Of course
she will! I'm worrying myself quite needlessly! It
will be all right. And as she doesn't go to her Briar
Farm now, I daresay she'll even forget her fetish of
a knight, the 'Sieur 'Amadis de Jocelin'!"
He laughed idly, amused as he always had been at
the romantic ideal she had made of the old French
knight who had so strangely turned out to be the
brother of his own far-away ancestor, and then,
on landing at Calais, was soon absorbed in numer-
ous other thoughts and interests, and gradually dis-
missed the whole subject from his mind. After all,
for him it was only one "little affair" out of at least
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT
a dozen or more, which from time to time had served
to entertain him and provide a certain stimulus for
his artistic emotions.
The storm had it all its own way in the fair Eng-
lish country, sweeping in from the sea it tore over
hill and dale with haste and fury, working terrible
havoc among the luxuriant autumnal foliage and
bringing down whirling wet showers of gold and
crimson leaves. Round Briar Farm it raged all day
long, tearing away from the walls one giant branch
of the old "Glory" rose and snapping it off at its
stem. Robin Clifford, coming home from the fields
in the late afternoon, saw the fallen bough covered
with a scented splendour of late roses, and lifting it
tenderly carried it into the house, thinking some-
what sadly that in the old days Innocent would have
been grieved had she seen such havoc made. Set-
ting it in a big brown jar full of water, he put it in
the entrance hall where its shoots reached nearly to
the ceiling, and Priscilla Friday exclaimed at the
sight of it
"Eh, eh, is the old rose-tree broken, Mister Robm!
That's never happened before in all the time I've
been 'ere! I don't like the looks of it! no, Mister
Robin, I don't!"
"It's only one of the bigger branches," answered
Robin soothingly. "The rose-tree itself is all right
I don't think any storm can hurt that it's too
deeply rooted. This was certainly a very fine
branch, but it must have got loosened by the wind."
Even as he spoke a fierce gust swept over the old
house with a sound like a scream of wrath and
agony, and a furious torrent of rain emptied itself
as though from a cloud-burst, half drowning the
flower-beds and for the moment making a pool of
the court-yard. Priscilla hurried to see that all the
windows were shut and the doors well barred, and
414 INNOCENT
when evening closed in the picturesque gables of
the roof were but a black blur in the almost inces-
sant whirl of rain.
As the night deepened the storm grew worse, and
the howling of the wind through the cracks and
crannies of the ancient building was like the noise
of wild animals clamouring for food. Priscilla and
Robin Clifford sat together in the kitchen, the
most comfortable apartment to be in on such an
unkind night of elemental uproar. It had become
more or less their living-room since Innocent's de-
parture, for Robin could not bear to sit in the "best
parlour," as it was called, now that there was no
one to share its old-world charm and comfort with
him, and when Priscilla's work was done, and
everything was cleared and the other servants gone
to their beds, he preferred to bring his book and
pipe into the kitchen, and sit in an old cushioned
arm-chair on one side of the fire-place, while Pris-
cilla sat on the other, mending the house-linen, both
of them talking at intervals of the past, and of the
happy and unthinking days when Farmer Jocelyn
had been alive and well, and when Innocent was
like a fairy child flitting over the meadows with her
light and joyous movements, her brown-gold hair
flying loose like a trail of sunbeams on the wind,
her face blossoming into rose-and-white loveliness
as a flower blossoms on its slender stem, her voice
carrying sweet cadences through the air and mak-
ing music wherever it rang. Latterly, however, they
had not spoken so much of her, the fame of her
genius and the sudden leap she had made into a po-
sition of public note and brilliancy had somewhat
scared the simple soul of Priscilla, who felt that the
child she had reared from infancy had been taken
by some strange and not to be contested fate away,
far out of her reach, while Robin whose experi-
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 415
ences at Oxford had taught him that persons of his
own sex attaining to even a mild literary celebrity
were apt to become somewhat "touch-me-not" char-
acters almost persuaded himself that perhaps In-
nocent, sweet and ideally simple of nature as he had
ever known her to be, might, under the influence of
her rapid success and prosperity, change a little (and
such change, he thought, would be surely natural!)
if only just as much as would lessen by ever so
slight a degree her former romantic passion for the
home of her childhood. And, lurking sometimes
at the back of all his thoughts there crept the sug-
gestive shadow of "Amadis de Jocelyn," not the
French Knight of old, but the French painter, of
whom she had told him and of whose very existence
he had a strange and secret distrust.
On this turbulent night the old kitchen looked
very peaceful and home-like, the open fire burned
brightly, flashing its flame-light against the ceiling's
huge oak beams everything was swept clean and
polished to the utmost point of perfection, and the
table on which Robin rested the book he was read-
ing was covered with a tapestried cloth, embroid-
ered in many colours, dark and bright contrasted
cunningly, with an effect that was soothing and
restful to the eyes. In the centre there was placed
a quaintly shaped jar of old brown lustre which
held a full tall bunch of golden-rod and deep wine-
coloured dahlias, a posy expressing autumn with a
greater sense of gain than loss. Robin was reading
with exemplary patience and considerable difficulty
one of the old French poetry books belonging to the
"Sieur Amadis de Jocelin," and Priscilla's small glit-
tering needle flew in and out the open-work stitch-
ery of a linen pillow-slip she was mending as deftly
as any embroideress of Tudor times. Over the old,
crabbed yet delicately fine writing of the "Sieur"
416 INNOCENT
whose influence on Innocent's young mind had been
so pronounced and absolute, and in Robin's opinion
so malign, he pored studiously, slowly mastering the
meaning of the verses, though written in a language
he had never cared to study. He was conscious of a
certain suave sweetness and melancholy in the swing
of the lines, though they did not appeal to him very
forcibly.
''En un cruel orage
On me laisse perir;
En courant au naufrage
Je vois chacun me plaindre et mil me secourir,
Felicite passee
Qui ne peux revenir
Tourment de ma pensee
Que n'ai-je en te perdant perdu le souvenir!
Le sort, plein d'injustice
M'ayant enfin rendu
Ce reste un pur supplice,
Je serais plus heureux si j'avais tout perdu !"
A sudden swoop of the wind shook the very raf-
ters of the house as though some great bird had
grasped it with beak and talons, and Priscilla
stopped her swift needle, drawing it out to its full
length of linen thread and holding it there. A
strange puzzled look was on her face she seemed to
be listening intently. Presently, taking off her spec-
tacles, she laid them down, and spoke in a half
whisper :
"Mister Robin! Robin, my dear!"
He looked up, surprised at the grave wistfulness
and wonder of her old eyes.
"Yes, Priscilla?"
"I'm thinkin' my time is drawin' short, dear lad!"
she said, slowly "I've got a call, an' I'll not be
much longer here! That's a warnin' for me "
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 417
"A warning? Priscilla, what do you mean?"
Drawing in her needle and thread, she pricked it
through the linen she held and looked full at him.
"Didn't ye hear it?" she asked.
A sudden chill crept through the young man's
blood, there was something so wan and mournful
in her expression.
"Dear Priscilla, you are dreaming! Hear what?"
She lifted one brown wrinkled hand with a ges-
ture of attention.
"The crying of the child!" she answered "Cry-
ing, crying, crying! Crying for me!"
Robin held his breath and listened. The wind had
for the moment lessened in violence, and its boom-
ing roar had dropped to a moaning sigh. Now and
again there was a pause that was almost silence, and
during one of these intervals he fancied but surely
it was only fancy! that he actually did hear a faint
human cry. He looked at Priscilla questioningly
and in doubt, she met his eyes with a fixed and
solemn resignation in her own.
"It's as I tell you," she said "My time has come!
It's for me the child is calling just as she used to
call whenever she wanted anything."
Robin rose slowly and moved a step or two to-
wards the door. The storm was gathering fresh
force, and heavy rain pattered against the windows
making a continuous steely sound like the clashing
of swords. Straining his ears to close attention, he
waited, and all at once as he stood in suspense
and something of fear, a plaintive sobbing wail crept
thinly above the noise of the wind.
"Priscilla! . . . Priscilla!" There was no mis-
taking the human voice this time and Priscilla got
up from where she sat, though trembling so much
that she had to lean one hand on the table to steady
herself.
418 INNOCENT
"Ye heard that, surely!" she said.
Robin answered her by a look. His heart beat
thickly, an awful fear beset him, paralysing his
energies. Was Innocent dead? W as that pitiful
wail the voice of her departed spirit crying at the
door of her childhood's home?
"Priscilla! ... Oh, Priscilla!"
The old woman straightened her bent figure and
lifted her head.
"Mister Robin, I must answer that call!" she said
"Storm or rain, we've no right to sit here with
the child's voice crying and the old house shut and
barred against her! We must open the door!"
He could not speak but he obeyed her gesture,
and went quickly out of the kitchen into the adja-
cent hall, there he unbarred and unlocked the
massive old entrance door and threw it open. A
sheet of rain flung itself in his face, and the wind
was so furious that for a moment he could scarcely
stand. Then, recovering himself, he peered into the
darkness and could see nothing, till all at once
he became vaguely aware of a small dark object
crouching in one corner of the deep porch like a
frightened animal or a lost child. He stooped and
touched it it was wet and clammy he grasped it
more firmly, and it moved under his hand shudder-
ingly and lifted itself, turning a white face up to
the light that streamed out from the hall a face
wan and death-like, but still the face he had ever
thought the sweetest in the world the face of In-
nocent ! With a loud cry of mingled terror and rap-
ture, he caught her up and held her to his heart.
"Innocent! My little love! Innocent!"
She made no answer no sort of resistance. Her
little body hung heavily in his arms her head
drooped helplessly against his shoulder.
"Priscilla!" he called "Priscilla!"
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 419
Priscilla was already beside him she had hurried
into the hall directly she heard his exclamation of
fear and amazement, and now as she saw him carry-
ing the forlorn little burden tenderly along she
threw up her hands with a piteous, almost despair-
ing gesture.
"God save us all! It's the child herself!" she
exclaimed "Mercy on the poor lamb! what can
have happened to her? she's half drowned with
rain!"
As quickly as Robin's strong arms could bear
her, she was carried gently into the kitchen and laid
in Robin's own deep arm-chair by the fire. Roused
to immediate practical service and with all her su-
perstitious terrors at an end, old Priscilla took off a
soaked little velvet hat and began to unfasten a wet
mass of soft silk that clung round the fragile little
figure.
"Go and bar the door fast, Mister Robin, my
dear!" she said, looking up at the young man's pale,
agonised face, "We don't want any one comin' in
here to see the child in trouble! besides, the wind's
enough to scare a body to death! Poor lamb, poor
lamb! where she can have come from the good
Lord only knows! It's for all the world like the
night when she was left here, long ago! Lock and
bar the door, dearie, and get me some of that pre-
cious old wine out of the cupboard in the best par-
lour." Here her active fingers came upon the glit-
tering diamond pendant in the shape of a dove that
hung by its slender gold chain round Innocent's
neck. She unclasped it, looking at it wonderingly
then she handed it to Robin who regarded it with
sombre, grudging eyes. Was it a love-gift? and
from whom?
"And while you're about helping me," went on
Priscilla "you might go to the child's room and
420 INNOCENT
fetch me that old white woolly gown she used to
wear it's warm and soft, and we'll put it on her
and wrap her in a blanket when she comes to her-
self. She'll be all right presently."
Like a man in a moving dream he obeyed, and
while he went on his errands Priscilla managed to
get off some of the dripping garments which clung
to the girl's slight form as closely as the wrappings
of a shroud. Chafing the small icy hands, she
smoothed the drenched fair hair, loosening its pins
and combs, and spreading it out to dry, murmur-
ing fond words of motherly pity and tenderness
while the tears trickled slowly down her furrowed
cheeks.
"My poor baby! my pretty child!" she mur-
mured "What has broken her like this? The
world's been too rough for her I misdoubt me if
her fancies about love an' the like o' that nonsense
aren't in the mischief, but praise the Lord that's
brought her home again, an' if so be it pleases Him
we'll keep her home!"
As she thought this, Innocent suddenly opened
her eyes. Beautiful, wild eyes that stared at her
wonderingly without recognition.
"Amadis!" The voice was thin and faint, but
exquisitely tender. "Amadis! How kind you are!
Ah, yes! at last! I was sure you did not mean to
be cruel I knew you would come back and be good
to me again! My Amadis! You are good! you
could not be anything else but good and true!"
She laughed weakly and went on more rapidly "It
is raining yes! Oh, yes raining very much!
such a cold, sharp ram! I've walked quite a long
way but I felt I must come back to you, Amadis!
just to ask you once more to say a kind word
to kiss me . . ."
She closed her eyes again and her head fell back
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 421
on the pillow of the chair in which she lay. Priscil-
la's heart sank.
"She doesn't know what she's talking about, poor
lamb!" she thought, "Just wandering and off her
head! and fancying things about that old French
knight again!"
Here Robin entered, and stood a moment, lost in
a maze of enchanted misery at the sight of the piti-
ful little half-disrobed figure in the chair, till Pris-
cilla took the white garment he had been sent to
fetch out of his passive hand.
"There, dear lad, don't look like that!" she said.
"Go, and come back in a few minutes with the wine
we'll be ready for you then. Cheer up! she's
opened her pretty eyes once she'll open them again
directly and smile at you ! "
He moved away slowly with an aching heart, and
a, tightness in his throat that impelled him to cry
like a woman. Innocent! little Innocent! she
who had once been all brightness and gaiety, was
this desolate, half-dying, stricken creature the same
girl? Ah, no! Not the same! Never the same any
more! Some numbing blow had smitten her,
some withering fire had swept over her, and she was
no longer what she once had been. This he felt
by a lover's intuition, intuition keener and surer
than all positive knowledge; and not the faintest
hope stirred within him that she would ever shake
off the trance of that death-in-life into which she
had been plunged by some as yet unknown disaster
unknown to him, yet dimly guessed. Meanwhile
Priscilla's loving task was soon done, and Innocent
was clothed, warm and dry, hi one of the old hand-
woven woollen gowns she had been accustomed to
wear in former days, and a thick blanket was
wrapped cosily round her. She was still more or
less unconscious, but the reviving heat gradually
422 INNOCENT
penetrated her body, and she began to sigh and
move restlessly. She opened her eyes again and
fixed them on the bright fire. Robin came in with
the glass of wine, and Priscilla held it to her lips,
forcing her to swallow a few drops.
The strong cordial started a little pulse of warmth
in her failing blood, and she made an effort to sit
up. She looked vaguely round her, then her wan-
dering gaze fixed itself on Priscilla's anxious old
face, and a faint smile, more pitiful than tears, trem-
bled on her lips.
"Priscilla!" she said "I believe it is Priscilla!
Oh, dear Priscilla! I called you but you would not
hear or answer me!"
"Oh, my lamb, I heard ye right enough!" and
Priscilla fondled and warmed the girl's passive hands
"But I couldn't think it was yourself I thought I
was dreaming "
"So did I!" she answered feebly "I thought I
was dreaming . . . yes! I have been dreaming
such a long, long tune ! All dreams! I have walked
through the rain it was very dark and the wind
was cold and cruel but I walked on and on I
don't know how I came but I wanted to get home
to Briar Farm do you know Briar Farm?"
Stricken to the soul by the look of the wistful
eyes expressing a mind in chaos, Priscilla answered
gently
"You're in Briar Farm now, dearie! Surely you
know you are! This is your own old home don't
you know it? don't you remember the old kitchen?
of course you do! There, there! look up and
see!"
She lifted her head and gazed about her in a lost
way.
"No!" she murmured "I wish I could believe it,
but I cannot. I believe nothing now. It is all
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 423
strange to me I have lost the way home, and I
shall never find it never never!" Here she sud-
denly pointed to Robin standing aloof in utter
misery.
"Who is that?" she asked.
Irresistibly impelled by love, fear, and pity, he
came and knelt beside her.
"It's Robin!" he said "Dear Innocent, don't you
know me?"
She touched his hair with one little hand, smiling
like a pleased child.
"Robin?" she queried "Oh, no! you cannot be
Robin he is ever so many miles away!" She
looked at him curiously, then laughed, a cold,
mirthless little laugh. "I thought for a moment you
might be Amadis his hair is like yours, thick and
soft you know him, of course he is the great
painter, Amadis de Jocelyn all the world has heard
of him! He went out just now and shut the door
and locked it but he will come back yes! he
will comeback!"
Robin heard and understood the whole explana-
tion of her misery suddenly flashed on his mind, and
inwardly he cursed the man who had wreaked such
havoc on her trusting soul. All at once she sprang
up with a wild cry.
"He will come back he must come back! Ama-
dis! Amadis! you will not leave me all alone?
No, no, you cannot be so cruel!" She stretched
out her arms as though to embrace some invisible
treasure in the air "Priscilla! . . . Priscilla!" Then
as Priscilla took her gently round the waist and
tried to calm her she began to laugh again. "The
old motto! you remember it? the motto of the
Sieur Amadis de Jocelin! 'Mon cceur me soutien!'
You know what it means 'My heart sustains me.'
Yes and you know why his heart is so strong?
424 INNOCENT
Because it is made of stone! A stone heart can
sustain anything! it is hard and firm and cold
no rain, no tears can soften it! no flowers ever
grow on it it does not beat it feels nothing
nothing!" and her hands dropped wearily at her
sides. "It is not like my heart ! my heart burns and
aches it is a foolish heart, and my brain is a fool-
ish brain I cannot think with it it is all dark
and confused! And I have no one to help me I
am all alone in the world!"
"Innocent!" cried Robin passionately "Oh, my
love, my darling! try to recall your dear wander-
ing mind! You are here in the old home you used
to love so well you are not alone you never shall
be alone any more. I am with you to love you and
take care of you I have loved you always I shall
love you till I die!"
She looked at him with a sudden smile.
"Robin! It is Robin! you poor boy! You al-
ways talked like that! but you must not love me,
I have no love to give you I would make you
happy if I could, but I cannot!"
A violent shudder as of icy cold shook her limbs
she stretched out her hands pitifully.
"Would you take me somewhere to sleep?" she
murmured "I am very tired ! And when he comes
you will wake me I will not keep him a moment
waiting! Tell him I am quite well and that I
knew he did not mean to be unkind "
Her voice brokeshe tottered and nearly fell.
Robin caught her in his arms and laid her gently
back in the chair, where she seemed to lapse into
unconsciousness. He turned a white, desperate face
on Priscilla.
"What is to be done?" he asked, "Shall I go
for the doctor?"
Priscilla shook her head.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 425
"The doctor would be no use," she answered
"She's just fairly worn out and wants rest. Her
little room is ready, I've kept it aired, and the bed
made warm and cosy ever since she went away
lest she should ever come back sudden like . . .
could you carry her up, d'ye think? She'll be bet-
ter in her bed and she would come to herself
quicker."
Gently and with infinite tenderness he lifted the
girl as though she were a baby and carried her
lightly up the broad oak staircase, Priscilla leading
the way and soon they brought her into her own
room, unchanged since she had occupied it, and
kept by Priscilla's loving and half superstitious care
ready for her return at any moment. Laying her
down on her little bed, Robin left her, though hardly
able to tear himself away, and going downstairs
again he flung himself into a chair and wept like a
child for the ruin and wreck of the fair young life
which might have been the joy and sunshine of his
days!
"Amadis de Jocelyn!" he muttered "A curse on
him! Why should the founder of this house bring
evil on us? Rising up like a ghost to overshadow
us and spoil our happiness? Let the house perish
and all its traditions if it must be so, rather than
that she should suffer! for she is innocent!"
Yes she was quite innocent, the little "base-
born" intruder on the unbroken line and history of
the Jocelyns! and yet it was with a kind of hor-
ror that the memory of that unbroken line and his-
tory recurred to him. Was there could there be
anything real in the long prevalent idea that if the
direct line of the Jocelyns were broken, the peace
and prosperity so long attendant on the old farm
would be at an end? He put the thought away
with a sense of anger.
426 INNOCENT
"No, no! She could only bring joy wherever she
went no matter who her parents were, or how she
was born, my poor little one! she has suffered for
no fault at all of her own!"
He listened to the dying clamour of the storm
the wind still careered round the house, making a
noise like the beating wings of a great bird, but the
rain was ceasing and there was a deeper sense of
quiet. An approaching step startled him he looked
up and saw Priscilla. She smiled encouragingly.
"Cheer up, Mister Robin!" she said. . . . "She
is much better she knows where she is now, bless
her heart! and she's glad to be at home. Let her
alone and if she 'as a good sleep she'll be a'most
herself again in the morning. I'll leave my bedroom
door open all night an' I'll be lookin' in at 'er
when she doesn't know it, watchin' her lovin' like
for all I'm worth ! . . . so don't ye worry, my lad!
there's a good God in Heaven an' it'll all come
right!"
Robin took her rough work-worn hands and
clasped them in his own.
"Bless you, you dear woman!" he said, huskily.
"Do you really think so? Will she be herself again?
our own dear little Innocent?"
"Of course she will!" and Priscilla blinked away
the tears in her eyes "An' you'll mebbe win 'er
yet! The Lord's ways are ever wonderful an' past
findin' out "
A clear voice calling from the staircase interrupted
them.
"Priscilla! Robin!"
Running to answer the summons, they saw Inno-
cent at the top of the stairs, a little vision of pale,
smiling sweetness, in her white wool wrapper her
hair falling loose over her shoulders. She kissed her
hands to them.
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 427
"Only to say good-night!" she said, "I know
just where I am now! it was so foolish of me to
forget! I am at home and this is Briar Farm
and I feel almost well and happy ! Robin ! "
He sprang up the stairs and, kneeling, took one of
her hands and kissed it.
"That's my true knight!" she said. "Dear Robin!
You deserve everything good and if it will give
you joy I will marry you!"
"Marry me!" he cried, scarcely believing his ears
"Innocent! You will? Dearest little love, you
will?"
She looked down upon him where he knelt, like
some small compassionate angel.
"Yes I will! To please you and Dad! To-
morrow if you like ! But you must say good-night
now and let me sleep!"
He kissed her hand again.
"Good-night, sweet!"
She started and drew her hand away.
"He said that once, and once in a letter he
wrote it. It seemed to me beautiful! 'Good-night,
sweet!'' She waited as if to think a moment,
then
"Good-night!" again she said "Do not be anx-
ious about me I shall sleep well! Good-night!"
She waved her hand once more, and disappeared
like a little white phantom in the dark corridor.
"Does she mean it, do you think?" asked Robin,
turning eagerly to Priscilla "Will she marry me,
after all?" '
"I shouldn't wonder!" and the old woman nodded
sagaciously "Let her sleep on it, lad! an' you
sleep on it, too! The storm's nigh over an' mebbe
our dark cloud 'as a silver lining!"
Half-an-hour later on she went to her own bed
and on the way thought she would peep into Inno-
428 INNOCENT
cent's room and see how she fared but the door
was locked. Vexed at her own lack of foresight in
not possessing herself of the key before the girl had
been carried to her room, she left her own door open
that she might be ready in case of any call and for
a long time she lay awake watchfully, thinking and
wondering what the next day would bring forth
till at last anxiety and bewilderment of mind were
overcome by sheer fatigue and she slept. Not so
Robin Clifford. Excited and full of new hope
which he hardly dared breathe to himself, he made
no attempt to rest but paced his room up and
down, up and down, like a restless animal in a cage,
waiting with hardly endurable impatience for the
dawn. Thoughts chased each other in his brain too
quickly to evolve any practical order out of them,
he tried to plan out what he would do with the
coming day how he would let the farm people
know that Innocent had returned how he would
send a telegram to her friend Miss Leigh in London
to say she was safe in her old home and then the
recollection of her literary success swept over his
mind like a sort of cloud her fame! the celebrity
she had won in that wider world outside Briar Farm
was it fair or honest to her that he should take
advantage of her weak and half-distraught condition
and allow her to become his wife? she, whose
genius was already acknowledged by a wide and
discerning public, and who might be considered as
only at the beginning of a brilliant and prosperous
career?
"For, after all, I am only a farmer," he said
"And with the friends she has made for herself she
might marry any one! The best way for me will
be to give her time time to recover from this this
terrible trouble she seems to have on her mind
this curse of that fancy for Amadis de Jocelyn!
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 429
by Heaven, I'd kill him without a minute's grace if
I had him in my power!"
Still pacing to and fro and thinking, he wore the
slow hours away, and at last the grey peep of a
misty, silvery dawn peered through his window. He
threw the lattice open and leaned out the scent of
the wet fields and trees after the night's storm was
sweet and refreshing, and copied his heated blood.
He reviewed the whole situation with greater calm-
ness, and decided that he must not be selfish
enough to grasp at the proffered joy of marriage
with the only woman he had ever loved unless he
could be made sure that it would be for her own
happiness.
"Just now she hardly knows what she is saying or
doing," he mused, sadly "Some great disappoint-
ment has broken her spirit and she is wounded and
in pain, but when she is quite herself and has mas-
tered her grief, she will see things in a different light
she will realise the fame she has won, the bril-
liant name she has made yes! she must think of
all this she must not wrong herself or injure her
position by marrying me!"
The silver-grey dawn brightened steadily, and in
the eastern sky long folds of silky mist began to
shred away in thin strips of delicate vapour showing
peeps of pale amber between, fitful touches of
faint rose-colour flitted here and there against the
gold, and with a sense of relief that the day was
at last breaking and that the sky showed promise of
the sun, he left his room, and stepping noiselessly
into the outside corridor, listened. Priscilla's door
was wide open and as he passed he looked in, she
was fast asleep. He could not hear a sound, and
though he walked on cautious tip-toe along the lit-
tle passage which led to the room where Innocent
slept and waited there a minute or two, straining
430 INNOCENT
his ears for any little sigh, or sob, or whisper, none
came; all was silent. Quietly he went downstairs,
and, opening the hall door, stepped out into the
garden. Every shrub and plant was dripping with
wet many were beaten down and broken by the
fury of the night's storm, and there was more deso-
lation than beauty in the usually well-ordered and
carefully-tended garden. The confusion of fallen
flowers and trailing stems made a melancholy im-
pression on his mind, at another time he would
scarcely have heeded what was, after all, only the
natural havoc wrought by high winds and heavy
rains, but this morning there seemed to be more
than the usual ruin. He walked slowly round to
the front of the house and there looked up at the
projecting lattice window of Innocent's room. It
was wide open. Surprised, he stopped underneath
it and looked up, half expecting to see her, but
only a filmy white curtain moved gently with the
first stirrings of the morning air. He stood a mo-
ment or two irresolute, recalling the night when he
had climbed up by the natural ladder of the old
wistaria and had heard her tell the plaintive little
story of her "base-born" condition, with tears in her
eyes, and the pale moonshine lighting up her face
like the face of an angel in a dream.
"And she had written her first book already
then ! " he thought "She had all that genius in her
and I never knew!"
A deeper brightness in the sky began to glow, and
a light spread itself over the land the sun was ris-
ing. He looked towards the low hills in the east,
and saw the golden run lifting itself like the edge
of a cup above the horizon, and as it ascended
higher and higher, some fleecy white clouds rolled
softly away from its glittering splendour, showing
glimpses of tenderest ethereal blue. A still and
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 431
solemn beauty invested all the visible scene, a
sacred peace the peace of an obedient and law-
abiding nature wherein man alone creates strange
discord. Robin looked long and lovingly at the
fair prospect, the wide meadows, the stately
trees warmly tinted with autumnal glory, and
thought
"Could she be happier than here? safe in the
arms of love? safe and sheltered from all trouble
in the home she once idolised?"
He would not answer his own inward query and
suddenly the fancy seized him to call her by name,
as he had called her on that moonlit night long ago,
and persuade her to look out on the familiar fields
shining in the sunlight of the morning.
"Innocent!"
There was no answer.
He called a little louder
"Innocent!"
Still silence. A robin hopped out from the cover
of wet leaves and peered at him questioningly with
its bold bright eye. Acting on an irresistible impulse
he set his foot on the gnarled root of the old wis-
taria and started to climb to the window-sill. Three
minutes sufficed him to reach it he looked into
the little room, the room which had formerly been
the study of the "Sieur Amadis de Jocelin" and
there seated at the old oak table with her head
bowed down upon her hands and her hair covering
her as with a veil, was Innocent. The sunlight
flashed brightly in upon her and immediately
above her the golden beams traced out as with a
pencil of light the arms of the old French knight
with the faded rose and blue of his shield and motto
illumining with curiously marked distinctness the
words he himself had carved beneath his own her-
aldic emblems:
432 INNOCENT
<c Who here seekynge Forgetfulness
Did here fynde Peace!"
She was veiy strangely still, and a cold fear sud-
denly caught at Robin's heart and half choked his
breath.
"Innocent!" he cried. Then, leaping into the
room like a man in sudden frenzy, he rushed towards
that motionless little figure threw his arms about
it lifted it caressed it ...
"Innocent! Look at me! Speak to me!"
The fair head fell passively back against his shoul-
der with all its wealth of rippling hair the fragile
form he clasped was helpless, lifeless, breathless!
and with a great shuddering sob of agony, he real-
ised the full measure of his life's despair. Innocent
was dead! and for her, as for the "Sieur Amadis,"
the quaint words shining above her in the morning
sunlight were aptly fitted
'Who here seekynge Forgetfulness
Did here fynde Peace!"
Many things in life come too late to be of rescue
or service, and justice is always tardy in arrival.
Too late was Pierce Armitage, after long years of
absence, to give his innocent child the simple her-
itage of a father's acknowledgment; he could but
look upon her dead face and lay flowers on her in
her little coffin. The world heard of the sudden
death of the young and brilliant writer with a faint-
ly curious concern but soon forgot that she had
ever existed. No one knew, no one guessed the
story of her love for the French painter, Amadis de
Jocelyn he was abroad at the time of her death,
and only three persons secretly connected him with
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT 433
the sorrow of her end and these were Lord Blythe,
Miss Leigh and Robin Clifford. Yet even these said
nothing, restrained by the thought of casting the
smallest scandal on the sweet lustre of her name.
And Amadis de Jocelyn himself? had he no re-
gret? no pity? If the truth must be told, he was
more relieved than pained, more flattered than
sorry! The girl had died for him, well! that was
more or less a pleasing result of his power! She was
a silly child obsessed by a "fancy" it was not his
fault if he could not live up to that "fancy" he
liked "facts." His picture of her was the success of
the Salon that year, and he was admired and con-
gratulated, this was enough for him.
"One of your victims, Amadis?" asked a vivacious
society woman he knew, critically studying the por-
trait on the first day of its exhibition.
He nodded, smilingly.
"Really? And yet Innocent?"
He nodded again.
"Very much so! She is dead!"
* * * *
Sorrow and joy, strangely intermingled, divided
the last years of life for good Miss Leigh. The shock
of the loss and death of the girl to whom she had
become profoundly attached, followed by the star-
tling discovery that her old lover Pierce Armitage
was alive, proved almost too much for her frail
nerves but her gratitude to God for the joy of
seeing the beloved face once again, and hearing the
beloved voice, was so touching and sincere that
Armitage, smitten to the heart by the story of her
long fidelity and her tenderness for his forsaken
daughter, offered to marry her, earnestly praying
her to let him share life with her to the end. This
she gently refused, but for the rest of her days
she with him and Lord Blythe made a trio of
434 INNOCENT
friends, a compact of affection and true devotion
such as is seldom known in this work-a-day world.
They were nearly always together, and the mem-
ory of Innocent, with her young life's little struggle
against fate ending so soon in disaster, was a link
never to be broken save by death, which breaks all.
L'ENVOI
A FEW evenings since, I who have written this true
story of a young girl's romantic fancy, passed by
Briar Farm. The air was very still, and a red sun
was sinking in a wintry sky. The old Tudor farm-
house looked beautiful in the clear half-frosty light
but the trees in the old bye road were leafless, and
though the courtyard gate stood open there were
no flowers to be seen beyond, and no doves flying to
and fro among the picturesque gables. I knew, as
I walked slowly along, that just a mile distant, in
the small churchyard of the village, Innocent, the
"base-born" child of sorrow, lay asleep by her
"Dad," the last of the Jocelyns, I knew also that
not far off from their graves, the mortal remains of
the faithful Priscilla were also resting in peace
and I felt, with a heavy sadness at my heart, that
the fame of the old house was wearing out and that
presently its tradition, like many legendary and
romantic things, would soon be forgotten. But just
at the turn of a path, where a low stile gives access
to the road, I saw a man standing, his arms folded
and leaning on the topmost bar of the stile a man
neither old nor young, with a strong quiet face, and
almost snow-white hair a man quite alone, whose
attitude and bearing expressed the very spirit of
solitude. I knew him for the master of the farm
a man greatly honoured throughout the neighbour-
hood for justice and kindness to all whom he em-
ployed, but also a man stricken by a great sorrow
for which there can be no remedy.
435
436 INNOCENT
"Will he never marry?" I thought, but as I
put the question to myself I dismissed it almost as
a blasphemy. For Robin Clifford is one of those
rarest souls among men who loves but once, and
when love is lost finds it not again. Except, per-
haps? in a purer world than ours, where our
"fancies" may prove to have had a surer foundation
than our "facts."
THE END
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