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,
containing all that was mortal of the sturdy, straightforward farmer,
whose "old-world" ways of work and upright 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, handwoven 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 labourers, 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 while, only to wag more vigorously than ever when the ceremony
should be over. Innocent, dressed in deep black for the first time in
her life, went by herself to the churchyard, avoiding the crowd--and,
hidden 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 nobody 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 colour 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 somehow 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 talking!"
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 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 foreboding mind that they were like the delicate thoughts
and fancies of the girl he loved being covered 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
historical possession. Something would be lacking in the neighbourhood
if it were not kept up to its old tradition 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 will probably inherit the farm, will she not, as
nearest of kin?"
Mr. Medwin coughed obtrusively--and Clifford felt the warm blood
rushing to his brows. Yet he resolved 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 together.
"You surprise me!" he murmured. "Then--there is no Miss Jocelyn?"
Again Robin coloured. But he answered, composedly--
"There is no Miss Jocelyn."
Mr. Medwin's cough here troubled him considerably, 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
summer 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, ye'll do your best," agreed Wixton, with a 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 in 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 eloquent 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--' Because 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 Innocent--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 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' marble, 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 teardrops off her cheeks with
a corner of her apron--"An' 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. Howsomever, 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 gathering 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 cordially shook
hands with Robin, entering at once into conversation with him
concerning his future intentions.
"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
practised 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 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 spectacles 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 Priday--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
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 something--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 allow 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 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 forgetful 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-reproachful 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 unwillingly 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 minutes I will come."
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 himself away at any
point. To all suggestive hints and speculative theories he maintained a
dignified reserve--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 before him--"Your uncle, Mr.
Clifford, was a business 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 Jocelyn,
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 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 tradition 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 Testament 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
therefrom a small key. With this he opened the oak casket--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, Amadis 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-indifferent 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 always 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?"
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 L2,500, 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 private
perusal, and other matter which concerns herself 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 documents once more.
"Then I think there is nothing more we need trouble you with--oh
yes!--one thing--Miss--er--Miss Priday--?"
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.
"Priday-Miss Priscilla Priday?"
"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 Priday,
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 estate known as Rose Cottage, free
of all charges, and be allowed to live there and be suitably and
comfortably maintained till the end of her days. And,--er--pray don't
distress yourself, Miss Priday!"
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.
"I think, Mr. Clifford," he then said, at last--"there is no occasion
to trouble you further. Everything 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 inheritance is that you
keep it maintained on the same working methods by which it has always
been maintained. 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 serious 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--"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 distressing! 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
Jocelyn--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 Priday!" he said--"you
speak--er--most sensibly! I'm sure I 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!"