Innocent : her fancy and his fact

by Marie Corelli

  CHAPTER II

  Chance and coincidence play curious pranks with human affairs, and oneof the most obvious facts of daily experience is that the meresttrifle, occurring in the most haphazard way, will often suffice tochange the whole intention and career of a life for good or for evil.It is as though a musician in the composition of a symphony shouldsuddenly bethink himself of a new and strange melody, and, pleasing hisfancy with the innovation, should wilfully introduce it at the lastmoment, thereby creating more or less of a surprise for the audience.Something of this kind happened to Innocent after her meeting with thepainter who bore the name of her long idealised knight of France,Amadis de Jocelin. She soon learned that he was a somewhat famouspersonage,--famous for his genius, his scorn of accepted rules, and hiscontempt for all "puffery," push and patronage, as well as for hisbrusquerie in society and carelessness of conventions. She also heardthat his works had been rejected twice by the Royal Academy Council, areason he deemed all-sufficient for never appealing to that exclusiveschool of favouritism again,--while everything he chose to send waseagerly accepted by the French Salon, and purchased as soon asexhibited. His name had begun to stand very high--and his originalcharacter and personality made him somewhat of a curiosity amongmen--one more feared than favoured. He took a certain pleasure inanalysing his own disposition for the benefit of any of hisacquaintances who chose to listen,--and the harsh judgment he passed onhimself was not altogether without justice or truth.

  "I am an essentially selfish man," he would say--"I have metselfishness everywhere among my fellow men and women, and have imbibedit as a sponge imbibes water. I've had a fairly hard time, and I'veexperienced the rough side of human nature, getting more kicks thanhalfpence. Now that the kicks have ceased I'm in no mood for soft soap.I know the humbug of so-called 'friendship'--the rarity ofsincerity--and as for love!--there's no such thing permanently in man,woman or child. What is called 'love' is merely a comfortableconsciousness that one particular person is agreeable and useful to youfor a time--but it's only for a time--and marriage which seeks to bindtwo people together till death is the heaviest curse ever imposed onmanhood or womanhood! Devotion and self-sacrifice are merest folly--thepeople you sacrifice yourself for are never worth it, and devotion isgenerally, if not always, misplaced. The only thing to do in this lifeis to look after yourself,--serve yourself--please yourself! No onewill do anything for you unless they can get something out of it fortheir own advantage,--you're bound to follow the general example!"

  Notwithstanding this candid confession of cynical egotism, the man hadgreatness in him, and those who knew his works readily recognised hispower. The impression he had made on Innocent's guileless and romanticnature was beyond analysis,--she did not try to understand it herself.His name and the connection he had with the old French knight of herchildhood's dreams and fancies had moved and roused her to a newinterest in life--and just as she had hitherto been unwilling to betraythe secret of her literary authorship, she was now eager to have itdeclared--for one reason only,--that he might perhaps think well ofher. Whereby it will be seen that the poor child, endowed with asingular genius as she was, knew nothing of men and their never-failingcontempt for the achievements of gifted women. Delicate of taste andsensitive in temperament she was the very last sort of creature torealise the ugly truth that men, taken en masse, consider women in oneonly way--that of sex,--as the lower half of man, necessary to man'scontinuance, but always the mere vessel of his pleasure. To her, Amadisde Jocelyn was the wonderful realisation of an ideal,--but she was verysilent concerning him,--reserved and almost cold. This rathersurprised good Miss Lavinia Leigh, whose romantic tendencies had beengreatly stirred by the story of the knight of Briar Farm and thediscovery of a descendant of the same family in one of the most admiredartists of the day. They visited Jocelyn's studio together--a vast,bare place, wholly unadorned by the tawdry paraphernalia which issometimes affected by third-rate men to create an "art" impression onthe minds of the uninstructed--and they had stood lost in wonder andadmiration before a great picture he was painting on commission,entitled "Wild Weather." It was what is called by dealers an "importantwork," and represented night closing in over a sea lashed into fury bythe sweep of a stormy wind. So faithfully was the scene of terror andelemental confusion rendered that it was like nature itself, and theimaginative eye almost looked for the rising waves to tumble liquidlyfrom the painted canvas and break on the floor in stretches of creamyfoam. Gentle Miss Leigh was conscious of a sudden beating of the heartas she looked at this masterpiece of form and colour,--it reminded herof the work of Pierce Armitage. She ventured to say so, with a littlehesitation, and Jocelyn caught at the name.

  "Armitage?--Yes--he was beginning to be rather famous somefive-and-twenty years ago--I wonder what became of him? He promisedgreat things. By the way"--and he turned to Innocent--"YOUR name isArmitage! 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," hesaid--"You will hardly find two of ME!--and I expect I shall hardlyfind two of YOU!" and he smiled--"especially if what I have heard isanything 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!" hesaid--"There! You have it! I'm loth to believe it, and hope the reportisn't true, for I'm afraid of clever women! Indeed I avoid themwhenever I can!"

  A sudden sense of hopelessness and loss fell over her like a cloud--herlips 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 distressed.

  He went on lightly.

  "My dear Miss Armitage, don't be angry with me!" he said--"You are sodelightfully ignorant of the ways of our sex, and I for one heartilywish you might always remain so! But we men are proverbiallyselfish-and we like to consider cleverness, or 'genius' if you will, asour own exclusive property. We hate the feminine poacher on ourparticular preserves! We consider that women were made to charm and toamuse us--not to equal us. Do you see? When a woman is clever--perhapscleverer than we are--she ceases to be amusing--and we must be amused!We cannot have our fun spoiled by the blue-stocking element,--thoughyou--YOU do not look in the least 'blue'!"

  She turned from him in a mute vexation. She thought his talk triflingand unmanly. Miss Leigh came to the rescue.

  "No--Innocent is certainly not 'blue,'" she said, sweetly--"If by thatterm you mean 'advanced' or in any way unwomanly. But she has beensingularly gifted by nature--yes, dear child, I must be allowed tospeak!"--this, as Innocent made an appealing gesture,--"and if peoplesay she is the author of the book that is just now being so much talkedof, they are only saying the truth. The secret cannot be kept muchlonger."

  He heard--then went quickly up to the girl where she stood in asomewhat dejected attitude near his easel.

  "Then it IS true!" he said--"I heard it yesterday from an oldjournalist friend of mine, John Harrington--but I couldn't quitebelieve it. Let me congratulate 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 conveyed a wordlesslanguage which made her heart beat foolishly and her nerves thrill. Sheforgot the easy mockery which had distinguished his manner since whenspeaking of the "blue-stocking element"-and once more "Amadis deJocelyn" sat firmly on her throne of the ideal!

  That very afternoon, on her return from Jocelyn's studio to MissLeigh's little house in Kensington which she now called her "home"--shefound a rep
ly-paid telegram from her publishers, running thus:

  "Eminent journalist John Harrington reviews book favourably in eveningpaper suggesting that you are the actual author. May we deny orconfirm?"

  She thought for some minutes before deciding--and went to Miss Leighwith the telegram in her hand.

  "Godmother mine!" she said, kneeling down beside her--"Tell me, whatshall I do? Is it any use continuing to wear the veil of mystery? ShallI 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 aboutit! You would rather remain quietly in your own dreamland than face thecriticism of the world, or be pointed out as a 'celebrity'--yes, Iquite understand! But I think you must, in justice to yourself andothers, 'take up the burden'--as you put it--yes, child! You must wearyour 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 attitudeand moved away--"It's beautiful to look at--but it soon fades!"

  She sent off her reply wire to the publishers without further delay.

  "Statement quite true. You can confirm it publicly."

  And so the news was soon all over London, and for that matter all overthe world. From one end of the globe to the other the fact was madeknown that a girl in her twentieth year had produced a literarymasterpiece, admirable both in design and execution, worthy to rankwith the highest work of the most brilliant and renowned authors. Shewas speedily overwhelmed by letters of admiration, and invitations fromevery possible quarter where "lion-hunting" is practised as a stimulantto jaded and over-wrought society, but amid all the attractions andgaieties offered to her she held fast by her sheet-anchor of safety,Miss Leigh, who redoubled her loving care and vigilance, keeping her asmuch as she could in the harbour of that small and exclusive "set" ofwell-bred and finely-educated people for whom noise and fuss and showmeant all that was worst in taste and manners. And remaining more orless in seclusion, despite the growing hubbub around her name, shefinished her second book, and took it herself to the great publishinghouse which was rapidly coining good hard cash out of the delicatedream of her woman's brain. The head of the firm received her witheager and respectful cordiality.

  "You kept your secret very well!" he said--"I assure you I had no ideayou 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 passedall my childhood in reading and studying--I had no playmates and nogames--and I was nearly always alone. I had only old books toread--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--"Itold Mr. Harrington, when he first suggested that you might be theauthor, 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 tobe known as the author."

  "No?" And he looked surprised--"Surely you must be happy to become sosuddenly famous?"

  "Are famous persons happy?" she asked--"I don't think they are! To bestared at and whispered about and criticised--that's not happiness! Andmen never like you!"

  The publisher laughed.

  "You can do without their liking, Miss Armitage," he said--"You'vebeaten all the literary fellows on their own ground! You ought to besatisfied. WE are very proud!"

  "Thank you!" she said, simply, as she rose to go--"I am grateful foryour good opinion."

  When she had left him, the publisher eagerly turned over the pages ofher new manuscript. At a glance he saw that there was no"falling-off"--he recognised the same lucidity of expression, the samepoint and delicacy of phraseology which had distinguished her firsteffort, and the wonderful charm with which a thought was pressed firmlyyet tenderly home to its mark.

  "It will be a greater triumph for her and for us than the previousbook!" he said--"She's a wonder!--and the most wonderful thing abouther is that she has no conceit, and is unconscious of her own power!"

  Two or three days after the announcement of her authorship, came aletter from Robin Clifford.

  "DEAR INNOCENT," it ran, "I see that your name, or rather the name youhave taken for yourself, is made famous as that of the author of a bookwhich is creating a great sensation--and I venture to write a word ofcongratulation, hoping it may be acceptable to you from your playmateand friend of bygone days. I can hardly believe that the dear little'Innocent' of Briar Farm has become such a celebrated andmuch-talked-of personage, for after all it is not yet two years sinceyou 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. Thework of the farm goes on as usual, and everything prospers--all is asUncle Hugo would have wished--all except one thing which I know willnever be! But you must not think I grumble at my fate. I might feellonely if I had not plenty of work to do and people dependent onme--but under such circumstances I manage to live a life that is atleast useful to others and I want for nothing. In the evenings when thedarkness closes in, and we light the tall candles in the old pewtersconces, I often wish I could see a little fair head shining like acameo against the dark oak panelling--a vision of grace and hope andcomfort!--but as this cannot be, I read old books--even some of thosebelonging to your favourite French Knight Amadis!--and try to add tothe little learning I gained at Oxford. I am sending for yourbook!--when it comes I shall read every word of it with an interest toodeep to be expressed to you in my poor language. 'Cupid' is well--heflies to my hand, surprised, I think, to find it of so rough a textureas compared with the little rose-velvet palm to which he wasaccustomed. 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 meetingand acquaintance with another Amadis de Jocelyn--"the real lastdescendant," she wrote, "of the real old family of the very Amadis ofBriar Farm!" She described his appearance and manners,--descanted onhis 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 tobe able to earn her living. And when Robin read the simple outflow ofher thoughts his heart grew cold within him. He, with the keen instinctof a lover, guessed at once all that might happen,--saw the hidden firesmouldering, and became conscious of an inexplicable dread, as though anote of alarm had sounded mystically in his brain. What would happen toInnocent, if she, with her romantic, old-world fancies, should allow apossible traitor to intrude within the crystal-pure sphere where hersweet soul dwelt unsullied and serene? He told Priscilla the strangestory--and she in her shrewd, motherly way felt something of the samefear.

  "Eh, the poor lamb!" she sighed--"That old French knight was ever a flyin her brain and a stumbling-block in the way of us all!--and now tocome across a man o' the same name an' family, turning up allunexpected 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 Farmnow?--or is he the rightful one?"

  Clifford laughed, a trifle bitterly.

  "I am the master," he said, "according to my uncle's will. This man isa painter--famous and admired,--he'll scarcely go in for farming! If hedid--if he'd buy the farm from me--I should be glad enough to sell itand 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 someuse--to Innocent." He paused, then added, slowly--"I think we shallhear more of this second Amadis de Jocelyn!"

  But months went on, and he heard nothing, save of Innocent's growingfame which, by leaps and bounds, was spreading abroad like fire blo
wninto brightness by the wind. He got her first book and read it withastonishment and admiration, utterly confounded by its brilliancy andpower. When her second work appeared with her adopted name appended toit as the author, all the reading world "rushed" at it, and equally"rushed" at HER, lifting her, as it were, on their shoulders andbearing her aloft, against her own desire, above the seething tide offashion and frivolity as though she were a queen of many kingdoms,crowned with victory. And again the old journalist, John Harrington,sought an audience of her, and this time was not refused. She receivedhim in Miss Leigh's little drawing-room, holding out both her hands tohim in cordial welcome, with a smile frank and sincere enough to showhim at a glance that her "celebrity" had left her unscathed. She wasstill the same simple child-like soul, wearing the mystical halo ofspiritual dreams rather than the brazen baldric of materialprosperity--and he, bitterly seasoned in the hardest ways of humanity,felt a thrill of compassion as he looked at her, wondering how herfrail argosy, freighted with fine thought and rich imagination, wouldweather a storm should storms arise. He sat talking for a long timewith her and Miss Leigh--reminding her pleasantly of their journey upto London together,--while she, in her turn, amused and astonished himby avowing the fact that it was his loan of the "Morning Post" that hadled her, through an advertisement, to the house where she was nowliving.

  "So I've had something of a hand in it all!" he said, cheerily--"I'mglad of that! It was chance or luck, or whatever you call it!--but Inever thought that the little girl with the frightened eyes, carrying asatchel for all her luggage, was a future great author, to whom I, as apoor old journalist, would have to bow!" He laughed kindly as hespoke--"And you are still a little girl!--or you look one! I feeldisposed to play literary grandfather to you! But you want nobody'shelp--you have made yourself!"

  "She has, indeed!" said Miss Leigh, with pride sparkling in her tendereyes--"When she came here, and suddenly decided to stay with me, I hadno idea of her plans, or what she was studying. She used to shutherself up all the morning and write--she told me she was finishing offsome work--in fact it was her first book,--a manuscript she broughtwith her from the country in that famous satchel! I knew nothing at allabout 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," saidHarrington,--"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 SECRETARY was the author herself!"

  Innocent blushed.

  "Perhaps it was wrong to say what was not true," she said, "but reallyI WAS and AM the secretary of the author!--I write all the manuscriptwith 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, Iwas with him the other day, and I said you were the author of thewonderful book. He told me I was talking nonsense--that you couldn'tbe,--he had met you at an artist's evening party and that you had toldhim a story about some ancestor of his own family. 'She's a nice littlething 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 awoman to do more than marry and have children. Simple girl with thesatchel, don't you know that? You mustn't mind it--it's their way. Ofcourse I rounded on Jocelyn and told him he was a fool, with a swelledhead on the subject of his own sex--he IS a fool in many ways,--he's agreat painter, but he might be much greater if he'd get up early in themorning and stick to his work. He ought to have been in the front ranklong ago."

  "But surely he IS in the front rank?" queried Miss Leigh, mildly--"Heis a wonderful artist!"

  "Wonderful--yes!--with a lot of wonderful things in him which haven'tcome out!" declared Harrington, "and which never will come out, I fear!He turns night into day too often. Oh, he's clever!--I grant you allthat--but he hasn't a resolute will or a great mind, like Watts orBurne-Jones or any of the fellows who served their art nobly--he's aselfish sort of chap!"

  Innocent heard, and longed to utter a protest--she wanted to say-"No,no!--you wrong him! He is good and noble--he must be!--he is Amadis deJocelyn!"

  But she repressed her thought and sat very quiet,--then, whenHarrington paused, she told him in a sweet, even voice the story of the"Knight of France" who founded Briar Farm. He was enthralled--not somuch by the tale as by her way of telling it.

  "And so Jocelyn the painter is the lineal descendant of the BROTHER ofyour Jocelin!--the knight who disappeared and took to farming in thedays of Elizabeth!" he said--"Upon my word, it's a quaint bit ofhistory 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 isour only wear--Realism and Prose--very prosy Prose. YOU are a romanticchild!--I can see that!--but don't over-do it! And if you ever made anideal out of your sixteenth-century man, don't make another out of thetwentieth-century one! He couldn't stand it!--he'd crumble at a touch!"

  She answered nothing, but avoided his glance. He prepared to take hisleave--and on rising from his chair suddenly caught sight of theportrait 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 speakingof," answered Miss Leigh--"His name was Pierce Armitage."

  "That's it!" exclaimed Harrington, with some excitement. "Of course!Pierce Armitage! I knew him! One of the handsomest fellows I ever saw!THERE was an artist, if you like!--he might have been anything! Whatbecame of him?--do you know?"

  "He died abroad, so it is said"--and Miss Leigh's gentle voice trembleda little--"but nothing is quite certainly known--"

  Harrington turned swiftly to stare eagerly at Innocent.

  "YOUR name is Armitage!" he said--"and do you know you are rather likehim! Your face reminds me---Are you any relative?"

  She gave the usual answer--

  "No."

  "Strange!" He bent his eyes scrutinisingly upon her. "I remember Ithought the same thing when I first met you--and HIS features are noteasily forgotten! You have his eyes--and mouth,--you might almost behis 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!" hesaid--"You've done very well for yourself!--but don't be romantic! Keepthat old 'French knight' of yours in the pages of an old Frenchchronicle!--shut the volume,--lock it up,--and--lose the key!"