Innocent : her fancy and his fact Part 21

"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 bewildered 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 everything--oh, Dad!"

Her voice quavered and broke in a pa.s.sion 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 was 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 occurred 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 gla.s.s 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 another 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 yesterday 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 recognised 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 villages outlying the one of which Briar Farm was the acknowledged centre.

"Good-morning!" he said, with affable condescension--"I hear that Farmer Jocelyn died suddenly last night. Is it true?"

Both men nodded gravely.

"Yes, sir, it's true--more's the pity! It's took us all aback."

"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 employment?"

The man who was smoking looked doubtful.

"n.o.buddy 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, meditatively tracing a pattern on the ground with the end of his walking-stick, "seems to me to be a little unfortunate. 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d, an' there's never been a b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 circ.u.mstance!--still, I'm sorry! He was a useful person in 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 pleasantly--"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 possibilities 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 curiously 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 forbidden to fly. A marked loneliness clouded the peaceful beauty of the place--a loneliness that made itself 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 surprised 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--"