CHAPTER VIII
Fame, or notoriety, whichever that special noise may be called when theworld like a hound "gives tongue" and announces that the quarry in someform of genius is at bay, is apt to increase its clamour in proportionto the aloofness of the pursued animal,--and Innocent, who saw nothingremarkable in remaining somewhat secluded and apart from the ordinaryroutine of social life so feverishly followed by more than half hersex, was very soon classified as "proud"--"eccentric"--"difficult" and"vain," by idle and ignorant persons who knew nothing about her, andonly judged her by their own limited conceptions of what a successfulauthor might or could possibly be like. Some of these, more foolishthan the rest, expressed themselves as afraid or unwilling to meether--"lest she should put them into her books"--this being a commonform of conceit with many individuals too utterly dull anduninteresting to "make copy" for so much as the humblest paragraphist.It was quite true that she showed herself sadly deficient in theappreciation of society functions and society people,--to her theyseemed stupid and boresome, involving much waste of precious time,--butnotwithstanding this, she was invited everywhere, and the accumulationof "R.S.V.P." cards on her table and desk made such a formidable heapthat it was quite a business to clear them, as she did once a week,with the assistance of the useful waste-paper basket. As a writer herpopularity was unquestionable, and so great and insistent was thepublic demand for anything from her pen that she could command her ownterms from any publishing quarter. Her good fortune made very littleeffect upon her,--sometimes it seemed as if she hardly realised orcared to realise it. She had odd, almost child-like ways of spendingsome of her money in dainty "surprise" gifts to her friends--that is tosay, such friends as had shown her kindness,--beautiful flowers andfruit for invalids--choice wines for those who needed yet could notafford them,--a new drawing-room carpet for Miss Leigh, which was, inthe old lady's opinion, a most important and amazing affair!--costlyfurs, also for Miss Leigh,--and devices and adornments of all sorts forthe pleasure, beauty or comfort of the house--but on herself personallyshe spent nothing save what was necessary for such dress and appearanceas best accorded with her now acknowledged position. Dearly as shewould have loved to shower gifts and benefits on the inhabitants ofnever-forgotten Briar Farm, she knew that if she did anything of thekind poor lonely old Priscilla Friday and patiently enduring RobinClifford were more likely to be hurt than gratified. For a silence hadfallen between that past life, which had been like a wild roseblossoming in a country lane, and the present one, which resembled awonderful orchid flower, flaming in heat under glass,--and though shewrote to Robin now and again, and he replied, his letters wererestrained and formal--almost cold. He knew too well how far she wasremoved from him by more than distance, and bravely contented himselfwith merely giving her such news of the farm and her former homesurroundings as might awaken her momentary interest without recallingtoo many old memories to her mind.
She seemed, and to a very great extent she was, unconscious of theinterest and curiosity both her work and her personality excited--themore so now as the glamour and delight of her creative imagination hadbeen obscured by what she considered a far greater and more lastingglory--that of love!--the golden mirage of a fancied sun, which for atime had quenched the steadier shining of eternal stars. Since thatever memorable night when he had suddenly stormed the fortress of hersoul, and by the mastery of a lover's kiss had taken full possession,Amadis de Jocelyn had pursued his "amour" with admirable tact,cleverness and secrecy. He found a new and stimulating charm in makinglove to a tender-hearted, credulous little creature who seemed truly"of such stuff as dreams are made of"--and to a man of his particulartype and temperament there was an irresistible provocation to hisvanity in the possibility of being able to lure her gradually andinsidiously down from the high ground of intellectual ambition andpower to the low level of that pitiful sex-submission which isresponsible for so much more misery than happiness in this world.Little by little, under his apparently brusque and playful, but reallystudied training, she began to think less and less of her work,--thebooks she had loved to read and refer to, insensibly lost theircharm,--she went reluctantly to her desk, and as reluctantly took upher pen,--what she had written already, appeared to her utterlyworthless,--and what she attempted to write now was to her mind poorand unsatisfying. She was not moved by the knowledge, constantlypressed upon her, that she was steadily rising, despite herself, to thezenith of her career in such an incredibly swift and brilliant way asto be the envy of all her contemporaries,--she was hardly as gratefulfor her honours as weary of them and a little contemptuous. What did itall matter to her when half of her once busy working mornings were nowoften passed in the studio of Amadis de Jocelyn! He was painting afull-length portrait of her--a mere excuse to give her facilities forvisiting him, and ensure his own privacy and convenience in receivingher--and every day she went to him, sometimes late in the afternoons aswell as the mornings, slipping in and out familiarly and quiteunnoticed, for he had given her a key to the private door of hisstudio, which was reached through a small, deeply shaded garden,abutting on an old-fashioned street near Holland Park. She could enterat any time, and thought it was the customary privilege accorded by anartist to his sitter, while it saved the time and trouble of therheumatic "odd man" or servant whose failing limbs were slow to respondto a summons at the orthodox front entrance. She would come in, dressedin her simple navy blue serge walking costume, and then in a littleroom just off the studio would change and put on the white dress whichher lover had chosen as the most suitable for his purpose, and which hecalled the "portrait gown." It was simple, and severely Greek, made ofthe softest and filmiest material which fell gracefully away inenchanting folds from her childishly rounded neck and arms,--it gaveher the appearance of a Psyche or an Ariadne,--and at the firstsitting, when he had posed her in several attitudes before attemptingto draw a line, she had so much sweet attractiveness about her that hewas hardly to be blamed for throwing aside all work and devotinghimself to such ardent delight in woman's fairness as may sometimesfall to the lot of man. While moving from one position to another as hesuggested or commanded, she had playfully broken off one flower from alarge plant of "marguerite" daisies growing in a quaint Japanese pot,close at hand, and had begun pulling off the petals according to theold fanciful charm--"Il m'aime!--un peu!--beaucoup!--passionement!--pasdu tout!" He stopped her at the word "passionement," and caught her inhis arms.
"Not another petal must be plucked!" he whispered, kissing her softwarm neck--"I will not have you say 'Pas du tout!'"
She laughed delightedly, nestling against him.
"Very well!" she said--"But suppose--"
"Suppose what?"
"Suppose it ever came to that?"--and she sighed as she spoke--"Then thelast petal must fall!"
"Do you think it ever will or can come to that?" he asked, pressing akiss on the sweet upturned lips--"Does it seem like it?"
She was too happy to answer him, and he was too amorous just then tothink of anything but her soft eyes, dewy with tenderness--her white,ivory-smooth skin--her small caressing hands, and the fine brighttendrils of her waving hair--all these were his to play with as a childplays with beautiful toys unconscious of or indifferent to their value.
Many such passages of love occupied their time--though he managed tomake a good show of progressive work after the first rough outlinedrawing of the picture was completed. He was undeniably a genius in hisway, uncertain and erratic of impulse, but his art was strong becauseits effects were broad and simple. He had begun Innocent's portrait outof the mere desire to have her with him constantly,--but as day afterday went on and the subject developed under his skilled hand and brushhe realised that it would probably be "the" picture of the Salon in thefollowing year. As this conviction dawned upon him, he took greaterpains, and worked more carefully and conscientiously with the happiestresults, feeling a thrill of true artistic satisfaction as the picturebegan to live and smile in response to his masterly touch andtreatment.
Its composition was simple--he had drawn the girl as thoughshe were slowly advancing towards the spectator, giving her figure allthe aerial grace habitual to it by nature,--one little daintily shapedhand held a dove lightly against her breast, as though the bird hadjust flown there for protection from its own alarm,--her face wasslightly uplifted,--the lips smiled, and the eyes looked straight outat the world with a beautiful, clear candour which was all their own.Yet despite the charm and sweetness of the likeness there was a strangepathos about it,--a sadness which Jocelyn had never set there by hisown will or intention.
"You are a puzzling subject," he said to her one day--"I wanted to giveyou a happy expression--and yet your portrait is actually growingsad!--almost reproachful! ... do you look at me like that?"
She opened her pretty eyes wonderingly.
"Amadis! Surely not! I could not look sad when I am with you!--that isimpossible!"
He paused, palette in hand.
"Nor reproachful?"
"How? When I have nothing to reproach you for?" she answered.
He put his palette aside and came and sat at her feet on the step ofthe dais where he had posed her.
"You may rest," he said, smiling up at her--"And so may I." She satdown beside him and he folded her in his arms. "How often we rest inthis way, don't we!" he murmured--"And so you think you have nothing toreproach me for! Well,--I'm not so sure of that--Innocent!"
She looked at him questioningly.
"Are you talking nonsense, my 'Sieur Amadis'?--or are you serious?" sheasked.
"I am quite serious--much more serious than is common with me," hereplied, taking one of her hands and studying it as the perfect modelit was--"I believe I am involving you in all sorts of trouble--and you,you absurd little child, don't see it! Suppose Miss Leigh were to findout that we make the maddest love to each other in here--you all alonewith me--what would she say?"
"What COULD she say?" Innocent demanded, simply--"There is noharm!--and I should not mind telling her we are lovers."
"I should, though!" was his quick thought, while he marvelled at herunworldliness.
"Besides"--she continued--"she has no right over me."
"Who HAS any right over you?" he asked, curiously.
She laughed, softly.
"No one!--except you!"
"Oh, hang me!" he exclaimed, impatiently--"Leave me out of thequestion. Have you no father or mother?"
She was a little hurt at his sudden irritability.
"No," she answered, quietly--"I have often told you I have no one. I amalone in the world--I can do as I like." Then a smile brightened herface. "Lord Blythe would have me as a daughter if I would go to him."
He started and loosened her from his embrace.
"Lord Blythe! That wealthy old peer! What does he want with you?"
"Nothing, I suppose, but the pleasure of my company!" and shelaughed--"Doesn't that seem strange?"
He rose and went back to work at his easel.
"Rather!" he said, slowly--"Are you going to accept his offer?"
Her eyes opened widely.
"I? My Amadis, how can you think it? I would not accept it for all theworld! He would load me with benefits--he would surround me withluxuries--but I do not want these. I like to work for myself and beindependent." He laid a brush lightly in colour and began to use itwith delicate care.
"You are not very wise," he then said--"It's a great thing for a younggirl like you who are all alone in the world, to be taken in hand bysuch a man as Blythe. He's a statesman,--very useful to hiscountry,--he's very rich and has a splendid position. His wife's suddendeath has left him very lonely as he has no children,--you could be adaughter to him, and it would be a great leap upwards for you, sociallyspeaking. You would be much better off under his care than scribblingbooks."
She drew a sharp breath of pain,--all the pretty colour fled from hercheeks.
"You do not care for me to scribble books!" she said, in low, stifledaccents.
He laughed.
"Oh, I don't mind!--I never read them,--and in a way it amuses me! Youare such an armful of sweetness--such a warm, nestling little bird oflove in my arms!--and to think that you actually write books that theworld talks about!--the thing is so incongruous--so 'out of drawing'that it makes me laugh! I don't like writing women as a rule--they givethemselves too many airs to please me--but you--"
He paused.
"Well, go on," she said, coldly.
He looked at her, smiling.
"You are cross? Don't be cross,--you lose your enchanting expression!Well--you don't give yourself any airs, and you seem to play atliterature like a child playing at a game: of course you make money byit,--but--you know better than I do that the greatest writers"--heemphasized the word "greatest" slightly--"never make money and arenever popular."
"Does failure constitute greatness?" she asked, with a faintlysatirical inflection in her sweet voice which he had never heard before.
"Sometimes--in fact pretty often," he replied, dabbing his brush busilyon his canvas--"You should read about great authors--"
"I HAVE read about them," she said--"Walter Scott was popular and mademoney,--Charles Dickens was popular and made money--Thackeray waspopular and made money--Shakespeare himself seemed to have had the oneprincipal aim of making sufficient money enough to live comfortably inhis native town, and he was 'popular' in his day--indeed he 'played tothe gallery.' But he was not a 'failure'--and the whole worldacknowledges his greatness now, though in his life-time he wasunconscious of it."
Surprised at her quick eloquence, he paused in his work.
"Very well spoken!" he remarked, condescendingly--"I see you take ahigh view of your art! But like all women, you wander from the point.We were talking of Lord Blythe--and I say it would be far better foryou to be--well!--his heiress!--for he might leave you all hisfortune--than go on writing books."
Her lips quivered: despite her efforts, tears started to her eyes. Hesaw, and throwing down his brush came and knelt beside her, passing hisarm round her waist.
"What have I said?" he murmured, coaxingly--"Innocent--sweet littlelove! Forgive me if I have--what?"--and he laughed softly--"rubbed youup the wrong way!"
She forced a smile, and her delicate white hands wandered caressinglythrough his hair as he laid his head against her bosom.
"I am sorry!" she said, at last--"I thought--I hoped--you might beproud of my work, Amadis! I was planning it all for that! You see"--shehesitated--"I learned so much from the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin--thebrother of your ancestor!--that I have been thinking all the time how Icould best show you that I was worthy of his teaching. The world--orthe public--you know the things they say of me--but I do not want theirpraise. I believe I could do something really great if YOU cared!--fornow it is only to please you that I live."
A sense of shame stung him at this simple avowal.
"Nonsense!" he said, almost brusquely--"You have a thousand otherthings to live for--you must not think of pleasing me only. Besides I'mnot very--keen on literature,--I'm a painter."
"Surely painting owes something to literature?" she queried--"We shouldnot have had all the wonderful Madonnas and Christs of the old mastersif there had been no Bible!"
"True!--but perhaps we could have done without them!" he said,lightly--"I'm not at all sure that painting would not have got on justas well without literature at all. There is always nature tostudy--sky, sea, landscape and the faces of lovely women andchildren,--quite enough for any man. Where is Lord Blythe now?"
"In Italy," she replied--"He will be away some months."
She spoke with constraint. Her heart was heavy--the hopes and ambitionsshe had cherished of adding lustre to her fame for the joy and pride ofher lover, seemed all crushed at one blow. She was too young andinexperienced to realise the fact that few men are proud of any woman'ssuccess, especially in the arts. Their attitude is one of amusedtolerance when it is not of actual sex-jealousy or contempt. Least ofall can any man endure that the woman for
whom he has a short spell ofpassionate fancy should be considered notable, or in an intellectualsense superior to himself. He likes her to be dependent on him alonefor her happiness,--for such poor crumbs of comfort he is pleased togive her when the heat of his first passion has cooled,--but he is notaltogether pleased when she has sufficient intelligent perception tosee through his web of subterfuge and break away clear of theentangling threads, standing free as a goddess on the height of her ownindependent attainment. Innocent's idea of love was the angelic dreamof truth and everlastingness set forth by poets, whose sweet singingdeludes themselves and others,--she was ready to devote all the uniquepowers of her mind and brain to the perfecting of herself for herlover's delight. She wished to be beautiful, brilliant, renowned andadmired, simply that he might take joy in knowing that this beautiful,brilliant, renowned and admired creature was HIS, body andsoul--existing solely for him and content to live only so long as helived, to work only so long as he worked,--to be nothing apart from hislove, but to be everything he could desire or command while his loveenvironed her. She thought of the eternal union of souls,--while he hadno belief in the soul at all, his half French materialism persuadinghim that there was nothing eternal. And like all men of his type heestimated her tenderness for him, her clinging arms, and the lingeringpassion of her caresses, to be chiefly the outflow of pleasedvanity--the kittenish satisfaction of being stroked and fondled--thesense of her own sex-attractiveness,--but of anything deep and closelyrooted in the centre of a more than usually sensitive nature he had notthe faintest conception, taking it for granted that all women, evenclever ones, were more or less alike, easily consoled by new millinerywhen lovers failed.
Sometimes, during the progress of their secret amour, a thrill ofuneasiness and fear ran coldly through her veins--a wondering doubtwhich she repelled with indignation whenever it suggested itself.Amadis de Jocelyn was and must be the very embodiment of loyalty andhonour to the woman he loved!--it could not be otherwise. Histenderness was ardent,--his passion fiery and eager,--yet shewondered--timidly and with deep humiliation in herself for daring tothink so far--why, if he loved her so much as he declared, did he notask her to be his wife? She supposed he would do so,--though she hadheard him depreciate marriage as a necessary evil. Evidently he had hisown good reasons for deferring the fateful question. Meanwhile she madea little picture-gallery of ideal joys in her brain,--and one of herfancies was that when she married her Amadis she would ask RobinClifford to let her buy Briar Farm.
"He could paint well there!" she thought, happily, already seeing inher mind's eye the "Great Hall" transformed into an artist'sstudio--"and I almost think _I_ could carry on the farm--Priscillawould help me,--and we know just how Dad liked things to bedone--if--if Robin went away. And the master of the house would againbe a true Jocelyn!"
The whole plan seemed perfectly natural and feasible. Only one obstaclepresented itself like a dark shadow on the brightness of her dream--andthat was her own "base" birth. The brand of illegitimacy was uponher,--and whereas once she alone had known what she judged to be ashameful secret, now two others shared it with her--Miss Leigh and LordBlythe. They would never betray it--no!--but they could not alter whatunkind fate had done for her. This was one reason why she was glad thatAmadis de Jocelyn had not as yet spoken of their marriage.
"For I should have to tell him!" she thought, woefully--"I should haveto say that I am the illegitimate daughter of Pierce Armitage--andthen--perhaps he would not marry me--he might change--ah no!--he couldnot!--he would not!--he loves me too dearly! He would never let mego--he wants me always! We are all the world to each other!--nothingcould part us now!"
And so the time drifted on--and with its drifting her work drifted too,and only one all-absorbing passion possessed her life with its closeand consuming fire. Amadis de Jocelyn was an expert in the seduction ofa soul--little by little he taught her to judge all men as worthlesssave himself, and all opinions unwarrantable and ill-founded unless heconfirmed them. And, leading her away from the contemplation of highvisions, he made her the blind worshipper of a very inadequate idol.She was happy in her faith, and yet not altogether sure of happiness.For there are two kinds of love--one with strong wings which lift thesoul to a dazzling perfection of immortal destiny,--the other withgross and heavy chains which fetter every hope and aspiration and dragthe finest intelligence down to dark waste and nothingness.
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