Innocent

Marie Corelli

Description

The author who wrote under the name "Marie Corelli" had a lot to say about the concept of illegitimacy and out-of-wedlock births, as she herself is believed to have been born under these circumstances. She addresses these sensitive subjects head-on in Innocent, a parable-like novel about a young woman whose purity and inherent goodness shine through despite the social stigma surrounding her.

Sujets

• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 décembre 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776595051
• Langue: English

Extrait

INNOCENT
HER FANCY AND HIS FACT
* * *
MARIE CORELLI
 
*
Innocent Her Fancy and His Fact First published in 1914 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-505-1 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-506-8 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
BOOK ONE: HER FANCY Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII BOOK TWO: HIS FACT Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII L'Envoi Endnotes
BOOK ONE: HER FANCY
*
Chapter I
*
The old by-road went rambling down into a dell of deep green shadow. Itwas a reprobate of a road,—a vagrant of the land,—having long agowandered out of straight and even courses and taken to meanderingaimlessly into many ruts and furrows under arching trees, which in wetweather poured their weight of dripping rain upon it and made it littlemore than a mud pool. Between straggling bushes of elder and hazel,blackberry and thorn, it made its solitary shambling way, so sunkeninto itself with long disuse that neither to the right nor to the leftof it could anything be seen of the surrounding country. Hidden behindthe intervening foliage on either hand were rich pastures and ploughedfields, but with these the old road had nothing in common. There weremany things better suited to its nature, such as the melodious notes ofthe birds which made their homes year after year amid its borderingthickets, or the gathering together in springtime of thousands ofprimroses, whose pale, small, elfin faces peeped out from every mossycorner,—or the scent of secret violets in the grass, filling the airwith the delicate sweetness of a breathing made warm by the April sun.Or when the thrill of summer drew the wild roses running quickly fromthe earth skyward, twining their stems together in fantastic arches andtufts of deep pink and flush-white blossom, and the briony wreaths withtheir small bright green stars swung pendent from over-shadowing boughslike garlands for a sylvan festival. Or the thousands of tinyunassuming herbs which grew up with the growing speargrass, bringingwith them pungent odours from the soil as from some deep-laidstorehouse of precious spices. These choice delights were the oldby-road's peculiar possession, and through a wild maze of beauty andfragrance it strayed on with a careless awkwardness, getting more andmore involved in tangles of green,—till at last, recoiling abruptly asit were upon its own steps, it stopped short at the entrance to acleared space in front of a farmyard. With this the old by-road hadevidently no sort of business whatever, and ended altogether, as itwere, with a rough shock of surprise at finding itself in such openquarters. No arching trees or twining brambles were here,—it was awide, clean brick-paved place chiefly possessed by a goodly company ofpromising fowls, and a huge cart-horse. The horse was tied to hismanger in an open shed, and munched and munched with all the steadinessand goodwill of the sailor's wife who offended Macbeth's first witch.Beyond the farmyard was the farmhouse itself,—a long, low, timberedbuilding with a broad tiled roof supported by huge oaken rafters andcrowned with many gables,—a building proudly declaring itself as ofthe days of Elizabeth's yeomen, and bearing about it the honourablemarks of age and long stress of weather. No such farmhouses are builtnowadays, for life has become with us less than a temporary thing,—acoin to be spent rapidly as soon as gained, too valueless for anyinterest upon it to be sought or desired. In olden times it wasapparently not considered such cheap currency. Men built their homes tolast not only for their own lifetime, but for the lifetime of theirchildren and their children's children; and the idea that theirchildren's children might possibly fail to appreciate the strenuousnessand worth of their labours never entered their simple brains.
The farmyard was terminated at its other end by a broad stone archway,which showed as in a semi-circular frame the glint of scarlet geraniumsin the distance, and in the shadow cast by this embrasure was the smallunobtrusive figure of a girl. She stood idly watching the hens peckingat their food and driving away their offspring from every chance ofsharing bit or sup with them,—and as she noted the greedy triumph ofthe strong over the weak, the great over the small, her brows drewtogether in a slight frown of something like scorn. Yet hers was not aface that naturally expressed any of the unkind or harsh emotions. Itwas soft and delicately featured, and its rose-white tints wereillumined by grave, deeply-set grey eyes that were full of wistful andquestioning pathos. In stature she was below the middle height andslight of build, so that she seemed a mere child at first sight, withnothing particularly attractive about her except, perhaps, her hands.These were daintily shaped and characteristic of inbred refinement, andas they hung listlessly at her sides looked scarcely less white thanthe white cotton frock she wore. She turned presently with a movementof impatience away from the sight of the fussy and quarrelsome fowls,and looking up at the quaint gables of the farmhouse uttered a low,caressing call. A white dove flew down to her instantly, followed byanother and yet another. She smiled and extended her arms, and a wholeflock of the birds came fluttering about her in a whirl of wings,perching on her shoulders and alighting at her feet. One that seemed toenjoy a position of special favouritism, flew straight against herbreast,—she caught it and held it there. It remained with her quitecontentedly, while she stroked its velvety neck.
"Poor Cupid!" she murmured. "You love me, don't you? Oh yes, ever somuch! Only you can't tell me so! I'm glad! You wouldn't be half sosweet if you could!"
She kissed the bird's soft head, and still stroking it scattered allthe others around her by a slight gesture, and went, followed by asnowy cloud of them, through the archway into the garden beyond. Herethere were flower-beds formally cut and arranged in the old-fashionedDutch manner, full of sweet-smelling old-fashioned things, such asstocks and lupins, verbena and mignonette,—there were box-borders andclumps of saxifrage, fuchsias, and geraniums,—and roses that grew inevery possible way that roses have ever grown, or can ever grow. Thefarmhouse fronted fully on this garden, and a magnificent "Glory" rosecovered 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 andsweetness,—a rose before which the most highly trained hybrids mighthang their heads for shame or wither away with envy, for the air aroundit was wholly perfumed with its honey-scented nectar, distilled frompeaceful years upon years of sunbeams and stainless dew. The girl,still carrying her pet dove, walked slowly along the narrow gravelledpaths that encircled the flower-beds and box-borders, till, reaching alow green door at the further end of the garden, she opened it andpassed through into a newly mown field, where several lads and men wereabout busily employed in raking together the last swaths of a full cropof hay and adding them to the last waggon which stood in the centre ofthe ground, horseless, and piled to an almost toppling height. Oneyoung fellow, with a crimson silk tie knotted about his openshirt-collar, stood on top of the lofty fragrant load, fork in hand,tossing the additional heaps together as they were thrown up to him.The afternoon sun blazed burningly down on his uncovered head and barebrown arms, and as he shook and turned the hay with untiring energy,his movements were full of the easy grace and picturesqueness which areoften the unconscious endowment of those whose labour keeps them dailyin the fresh air. Occasional bursts of laughter and scraps of roughsong came from the others at work, and there was only one absolutelyquiet figure among them, that of an old man sitting on an upturnedbarrel which had been but recently emptied of its home-brewed beer,meditatively smoking a long clay pipe. He wore a smock frock and strawhat, and under the brim of the straw hat, which was well pulled downover his forehead, his filmy eyes gleamed with an alert watchfulness.He seemed to be counting every morsel of hay that was being added tothe load and pricing it in his mind, but there was no actual expressionof either pleasure or interest on his features. As the girl entered thefield, and her gown made a gleam of white on the grass, he turned hishead and looked at her, puffing hard at his pipe and watching herapproach only a little less narrowly than he watched the piling up ofthe hay. When she drew sufficiently near him he spoke.
"Coming to ride home on last load?"
She hesitated.
"I don't know. I'm not sure," she answered.
"It'll please Robin if you do," he said.
A little smile trembled on her lips. She bent her head over the doveshe 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, pleasenobody."
"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 theair l