Innocent : her fancy and his fact Part 23

She remained unmoved by his outburst.

"I am not a heathen," she said, gently--"I believe in G.o.d--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 suppose 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. 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 G.o.d for prosperity, and never complained when things went wrong--that is not being an infidel! 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 pretend 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 embarra.s.sed and annoyed--there was something in the girl's quiet demeanour that suggested a certain intellectual superiority to himself. He hummed and hawed, lurking 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 outside 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-less n.o.body, 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 G.o.d'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. Medwin, whose manner to her had completely changed from the politely patronising to the sharply aggressive--"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--"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 wedlock--"

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 difficult. 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 G.o.d will support 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 unbaptised 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 flowerbeds, with all their profusion of blossom.

She wondered 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 window-sill,--she stretched out her hand and the petted bird stepped on her little rosy palm with all its accustomed familiarity and confidence. She caressed it tenderly.

"Poor Cupid!" she murmured--"You are like me--you are unregenerate!--you have never been baptised!--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 G.o.d 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 dissipation.

"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 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' there'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-d.y.k.es now--just as I've always been--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.