CHAPTER IX
In affairs of love a woman is perhaps most easily ensnared by a man whocan combine passion with pleasantry and hot pursuit with social tactand diplomacy. Amadis de Jocelyn was an adept at this kind of thing--hewas, if it may be so expressed, a refined libertine, loving women froma purely physical sense of attraction and pleasure conveyed to himself,and obtusely ignorant of the needs or demands of their higher natures.From a mental or intellectual standpoint all women to him were alike,made to be "managed" alike, used alike, and alike set aside when theiruse was done with. The leaven of the Jew or the Turk was in thetemperament of this descendant of a long line of French nobles, who hadgained their chief honours by killing men, ravishing women andplundering their neighbours' lands--though occasional flashes ofbravery and chivalry had glanced over their annals in history like thelight from a wandering will o' the wisp flickering over a morass.Gifted in his art, but wholly undisciplined in his nature, he had liveda life of selfish aims to selfish ends, and in the course of it hadmade love to many women,--one especially, on whose devoted affectionshe had preyed like an insect that ungratefully poisons the flower fromwhich it has sucked the honey. This woman, driven to bay at last by hisneglect and effrontery, had roused the scattered forces of her prideand had given him his conge--and he had been looking about for a freshvictim when he met Innocent. She was a complete novelty to him, andstimulated his more or less jaded emotions,--he found her quaint andcharming as a poet's dream of some nymph of the woodlands,--her mannerof looking at life and the things of life was so deliciouslysimple--almost mediaeval,--for she believed that a man should dierather than break his word or imperil his honour, which to Jocelyn wassuch a primitive state of things as to seem prehistoric. Then there washer fixed and absurd "fancy" about the noble qualities and manifoldvirtues of the French knight who had served the Duc d'Anjou,--and whohad been to her from childhood a kind of lover in the spirit,--a beingwhom she had instinctively tried to serve and to please; and he hadsufficient imagination to understand and take advantage of the feelingaroused in her when she had met one of the same descent, and bearingthe same name, in himself. He had run through the gamut of manyemotions and sentiments,--he had joined one or two of the new schoolsof atheism and modernism started by certain self-opinionated youngUniversity men, and in the earlier stages of his career had in thecock-sure impulse of youth designed schemes for the regeneration of theworld, till the usual difficulties presented themselves as opposed tosuch vast business,--he had associated himself with men who followedwhat is called the "fleshly school" of poetry and art generally, andhad evolved from his own mentality a comfortable faith of which thechief tenet was "Self for Self"--a religion which lifts the mind nohigher than the purely animal plane;--and in its environment ofphysical consciousness and agreeable physical sensations, he wascontent to live.
With such a temperament and disposition as he possessed, which swayedhim hither and thither on the caprice or impulse of the moment, hisintentions toward Innocent were not very clear even to himself. When hehad begun his "amour" with her he had meant it to go just as far asshould satisfy his own whim and desire,--but as he came to know herbetter, he put a check on himself and hesitated as one may hesitatebefore pulling up a rose-bush from its happy growing place and flingingit out on the dust-heap to die. She was so utterly unsuspicious andunaware of evil, and she had placed him on so high a pedestal ofhonour, trusting him with such perfect and unquestioning faith, thatfor very manhood's sake he could not bring himself to tear the veilfrom her eyes. Moreover he really loved her in a curious, haphazard wayof love,--more than he had ever loved any one of her sex,--and, whenin her presence and under her influence, he gained a glimmering ofconsciousness of what love might mean in its best and purest sense.
He laughed at himself however for this very thought. He had alwayspooh-pooh'd the idea of love as having anything divine or uplifting inits action,--nevertheless in his more sincere moments he was bound toconfess that since he had known Innocent his very art had gained acertain breadth and subtlety which it had lacked before. It was apleasure to him to see her eyes shine with pride in his work, to hearher voice murmur dulcet praises of his skill, and for a time he tookinfinite pains with all his subjects, putting the very best of himselfinto his drawing and colouring with results that were brilliant andconvincing enough to ensure success for all his efforts.Sometimes--lost in a sudden fit of musing--he wondered how his lifewould shape itself if he married her? He had avoided marriage as a manmight avoid hanging,--considering it, not without reason, the possibleruin of an artist's greater career. Among many men he had known, men ofundoubted promise, it had proved the fatal step downward from the highto the low. One particular "chum" of his own, a gifted painter, hadmarried a plump rosy young woman with "a bit o' money," as the countryfolks say,--and from that day had been steadily dragged down to thedomestic level of sad and sordid commonplace. Instead of studying formand colour, he was called upon to examine drains and superintend theplumber, mark house linen and take care of the children--his wifebelieving in "making a husband useful." Of regard for his art orpossible fame she had none,--while his children were taught to regardhis work in that line as less important than if he had been abricklayer at so much pence the hour.
"Children!" thought Jocelyn--"Do I want them? ... No--I think not!They're all very well when they're young--really young!--two to fiveyears old is the enchanting age,--but, most unfortunately, they grow!Yes!--they grow,--often into hideous men and women--a sort of humanvultures sitting on their fathers' pockets and screaming 'Give! Give!'The prospect does not attract me! And she?--Innocent? I don't think Icould bear to watch that little flower-like face gradually enlarginginto matronly lines and spreading into a double chin! Those pretty eyespeering into the larder and considering the appearance of uncookedbacon! Perish the thought! One might as well think of Shakespeare'sJuliet paying the butcher's bill, or worse still, selecting thebutcher's meat! Forbid it, O ye heavens! Of course if ideals could berealised, which they never are, I can see myself wedded for pure love,without a care, painting my pictures at ease, with a sweet womanworshipping me, ever at my beck and call, and shielding me from troublewith all the tender force of her passionate little soul!--butcommonplace life will net fit itself into these sort of beatificvisions! Babies, and the necessary provision of food and clothes andservants--this is what marriage means--love having sobered down to amatter-of-fact conclusion. No--no! I will not marry her! It would belike catching a fairy in the woods, cutting off its sunbeam wings andsetting it to scrub the kitchen floor!"
It was curious that while he pleased himself with this fancifulsoliloquy it did not occur to him that he had already caught the "fairyin the woods," and ever since the capture had been engaged in cuttingoff its "sunbeam wings" with all a vivisector's scientificsatisfaction. And in his imaginary pictures of what might have been if"ideals" were realised, he did not for a moment conceive HIMSELF as"worshipping" the woman who was to worship HIM, or as being at HER"beck and call," or as shielding HER from trouble--oh no! He merelyconsidered himself, and how she would care for HIM,--never once did heconsider how he would care for HER.
Meanwhile things went on in an outwardly even and uneventful course.Innocent worked steadily to fulfil certain contracts into which she hadentered with the publishers who were eager to obtain as much of herwork as she could give them,--but she had lost heart, and her oncesoaring ambition was like a poor bird that had been clumsily shot at,and had fallen to the ground with a broken wing. What she had dreamedof as greatness, now seemed vain and futile. The "Amadis de Jocelin" ofthe sixteenth century had taught her to love literature--to believe init as the refiner of thought and expression, and to use it as a charmto inspire the mind and uplift the soul,--but the Amadis de Jocelyn ofthe twentieth had no such lessons to teach. Utterly lacking inreverence for great thinkers, he dismissed the finest passages ofpoetry or prose from his consideration with light scorn as "purplepatches," borrowing that hackneyed phrase from the lower walks of t
hepress,--the most inspired writers, both of ancient and modern times,came equally under the careless lash of his derision,--so thatInnocent, utterly bewildered by his sweeping denunciation of manybrilliant and famous authors, shrank into her wounded self with pain,humiliation and keen disappointment, feeling that there was certainlyno chance for her to appeal to him in any way through the thoughts shecherished and expressed with truth and fervour to a listening world.That world listened--but HE did not!--therefore the world seemedworthless and its praise mere mockery. She had no vanity to supporther,--she was not "strong-minded" enough to oppose her ownindividuality to that of the man she loved. And so she began to droop alittle,--her bright and ardent spirit sank like a sinking flame,--muchto the concern of Miss Leigh, who watched her with a jealous tendernessof love beyond all expression. The child of Pierce Armitage, lawfullyor unlawfully begotten, was now to her the one joy of existence,--thelink that fastened her more closely to life,--and she worried herselfsecretly over the evident listlessness, fatigue and depression of thegirl who had so lately been the very embodiment of happiness. But shedid not like to ask questions,--she knew that Innocent had a veryresolute mind of her own, and that if she elected to remain silent onany subject whatsoever, nothing, not even the most affectionate appeal,would induce her to speak.
"You will not let her come to any harm, Pierce!" murmured the old ladyprayerfully one day, standing before the portrait of her former andfaithless lover--"You will step in if danger threatens her!--yes, I amsure you will! You will guide and help her again as you have guided andhelped her before. For I believe you brought her to me, Pierce!--yes, Iam sure you did! In that other world where you are, you have learnedhow much I loved you long ago!--how much I love you now!--and how Ilove your child for your sake as well as for her own! All wrongs andmistakes are forgiven and forgotten, Pierce! and when we meet again weshall understand!"
And with her little trembling worn hands she set a rose, just openingits deep red heart-bud into flower, in a crystal vase beside theportrait as a kind of votive offering, with something of the samesuperstitious feeling that induces a devout Roman Catholic to burn acandle before a favourite saint, in the belief that the spirit of thedead man heard her words and would respond to them.
Just at this time, Innocent went about a good deal among the fewfriends who had learned to know her well and to love her accordingly.Lord Blythe was still away, having prolonged his tour in order to enjoythe beauty of the Italian lakes in autumn. Summer in England waspractically over, but the weather was fine and warm still, andcountry-house parties, especially in Scotland, were the order of theday. The "social swim" was subsiding, and what are called "notable"people were beginning to leave town. Once or twice, infected by thegeneral exodus, Innocent thought of going down to Briar Farm just for afew days as a surprise to Priscilla--but a feeling for Robin held herback. It would be needless unkindness to again vex his mind with thepain of a hopeless passion. So she paid a few casual visits here andthere, chiefly at houses where Amadis de Jocelyn was also one of theinvited guests. She was made the centre of a considerable amount ofadulation, which did not move her to any sort of self-satisfaction,because in the background of her thoughts there was always the lightjest and smile of her lover, who laughed at praise, except, be it heresaid, when it was awarded to himself. Then he did not laugh--he assumeda playful humility which, being admirably acted, almost passed formodesty. But if by chance he had to listen to any praise of "EnaArmitage" as author or woman, he changed the subject as soon as hecould conveniently do so without brusquerie. And very gradually itdawned upon her that he took no pride in her work or in the positionshe had won, and that he was more reluctant than glad to hear herpraised. He seemed to prefer she should be unnoticed, save by himself,and more or less submissive to his will. Had she been worldly-wise, shewould by every action have moved a silent protest against this, hisparticular form of sex-dominance, but she was of too loving a nature todispute any right of command he chose to assume. Other men, younger andfar higher in place and position than Jocelyn, admired her, and madesuch advances as they dared, finding her very coldness attractive,united as it was to such sweetness of manner as few could resist, butthey had no chance with her. Once or twice some of her women friendshad sounded her on the subject of love and lovers, and she had putaside all their questions with a smile. "Love is not to be talkedabout," she had said--"It is like God, served best in silence."
But by scarcely perceptible degrees, busy rumour got hold of a threador two of the clue leading to the labyrinth of her mystery,--peoplenodded mysteriously at each other and began to whispersuggestions--suggestions which certainly did not go very far, but justfloated in the air like bits of thistledown.
"She is having her portrait painted, isn't she?"
"Yes--by that man with the queer name--Amadis de Jocelyn."
"Has she given him the commission?"
"Oh no! I believe not. He's painting it for the French Salon."
"Oh!"
Then there would follow a silence, with an exchange of smiles allround. And presently the talk would begin again.
"Will it be a 'case,' do you think?"
"A 'case'? You mean a marriage? Oh dear no! Jocelyn isn't a marryingman."
"Isn't she a little--er--well!--a little taken with him?"
"Perhaps! Very likely! Clever women are always fools on one point--ifnot on several!"
"And he? Isn't he very attentive?"
"Not more so than he has been and is to dozens of other women. He's tooclever to show her any special attention--it might compromise him. He'sa man that takes care of Number One!"
So the gossip ran,--and only Jocelyn himself caught wind of itsufficiently to set him thinking. His "affaire de coeur" had gone farenough,--and he realised that the time had come for him to beat aretreat. But how to do it? The position was delicate and difficult. IfInnocent had been an ordinary type of woman, vain and selfish, fond offrivolities and delighting in new conquests, his task would have beeneasy,--but with a girl who believed in love as the ultimatum of allgood, and who trusted her lover with implicit faith as next in order ofworship to God, what was to be done?
"We talk a vast amount of sentimental rubbish about women being pureand faithful!" he soliloquised--"But when they ARE pure and faithful weare more bored with them than if they were the worst women in town!"
He had however one subject of congratulation for which hemetaphorically patted himself on the back as being "a good boy"--he hadnot gone to such extremes in his love-affair as could result in what isusually called "trouble" for the girl. He had left her unscathed, savein a moral and spiritual sense. The sweet body, with its delicatewavering tints of white and rose was as the unspoilt sheath of alily-bud,--no one could guess that within the sheath the lily itselfwas blighted and slowly withering. One may question whether it is not amore cruel thing to seduce the soul than the body,--to crush all thefine faiths and happy illusions of a fair mind and leave them scorchedby a devastating fire whose traces shall never be obliterated. Amadisde Jocelyn would have laughed his gayest and most ironical laugh at thebare possibility of such havoc being wrought by the passion of lovealone.
"What's the use of loving or remembering anything?" he wouldexclaim--"One loves--one tires of love!--and by-and-by one forgets thatlove ever existed. I look forward to the time when my memory shalldwell chiefly on the agreeable entremets of life--a good dinner--achoice cigar! These things never bother you afterwards,--unless youeat too much or smoke too much,--then you have headache andindigestion--distinctly your own fault! But if you love a woman for atime and tire of her afterwards she always bothers you!--reminding youof the days when you 'once' loved her with persistent and dreadfulmonotony! I believe in forgetting,--and 'letting go.'"
With these sentiments, which were the true outcome of his real self, itwas not and never would be possible for him to conceive that withcertain high and ultra-sensitive natures love is a greater necessitythan life itself, and that if they are deprived of the glory
they havebeen led to imagine they possessed, nothing can make compensation forwhat to them is eternal loss, coupled with eternal sorrow.
Meanwhile Innocent's portrait on which he had worked for a considerabletime was nearly completed. It was one of the best things he had everdone, and he contemplated it with a pleasant thrill of artistictriumph, forgetting the "woman" entirely in satisfied consideration ofthe "subject." As a portrait he realised that it would be the crown ofthe next year's Salon, bearing comparison with any work of the greatermodern masters. He was however a trifle perplexed, and not altogetherpleased at the expression, which, entirely away from his will andintention, had insensibly thrown a shadow of sadness on the face,--ithad come there apparently of itself, unbidden. He had been particularlyproud of his success in the drawing of the girl's extremely sensitivemouth, for he had, as he thought, caught the fleeting sweetness of thesmile which was one of her greatest charms,--but now, despite hispains, that smile seemed to lose itself in the sorrow and pathos of anunspoken reproach, which, though enthralling and appealing to thebeholder as the look of the famous "Mona Lisa," had fastened itself asit were on the canvas without the painter's act or consent. He wasannoyed at this, yet dared not touch it in any attempt to alter whatasserted itself as convincingly finished,--for the picture was a finework of art and he realised that it would add to his renown.
"I shall not name it as the portrait of a living woman," he said tohimself--"I shall call it simply--'Innocent.'"
As he thought this, the subject of the painting herself entered thestudio. He turned at the sound of the door opening, and caught astrange new impression of her,--an impression that moved him to a touchof something like fear. Was she going to be tiresome, hewondered?--would she make him a "scene"--or do something odd as womengenerally did when their feelings escaped control? Her face was verypale--her eyes startlingly bright,--and the graceful white summer frockshe wore, with soft old lace falling about it, a costume completed inperfection by a picturesque Leghorn hat bound with black velvet andadorned with a cluster of pale roses, made her a study worthy the brushof many a greater artist than Amadis de Jocelyn. His quick eye notedevery detail of her dainty dress and fair looks as he went to meet herand took her in his arms. She clung to him for a moment--and he felther tremble.
"What's the matter?" he asked, with unconscious sharpness--"Is anythingwrong?"
She put him away from her tenderly and looked up smiling--but there wasa sparkling dew in her eyes.
"No, my Amadis! Nothing wrong!"
He heaved a quick sigh of relief.
"Thank heaven! You looked at me as if you had a grievance--all womenhave grievances--but they should keep them to themselves."
She gave the slightest little shrug of her shoulders; then went and saton the highest step of the familiar dais where she had posed for herpicture, and waited a moment. He did not at once come to sit beside heras he had so often done--he stood opposite his easel, looking at herportrait but not at her.
"I have no grievance," she said then, making an effort to steady hervoice, which trembled despite herself--"And if I had I should not vexyou with it. But--when you can quite spare the time I should like aquiet little talk with you."
He looked round at her with a kind smile.
"Just what I want to have with you! 'Les beaux esprits serencontrent'--and we both want exactly the same thing! Dear littlegirl, how sensible you are! Of course we must talk--about the future."
A lovely radiance lit up her face.
"That is what I thought you would wish," she said--"Now that theportrait is finished."
"Well,--all but a touch or two," he rejoined--"I shall ask a few peopleto come here and see it before it leaves London. Then it must beproperty packed in readiness for Paris before--before I go--"
Her eyes opened in sudden terrified wonderment.
"Before you go--where?"
He laughed a little awkwardly.
"Oh--only a short journey--on business--I will explain when we have ourtalk out--not now--in a day or two--"
He left the easel, and coming to where she sat, lifted her in his armsand folded her close to his breast.
"You sweet soul!" he murmured--"You little Innocent! You are so prettyto-day!--you madden me--"
He unfastened her hat and put it aside,--then drawing her closer,showered quick eager kisses on her lips, eyes and warm soft neck. Hefelt her heart beating wildly and her whole body trembling under hisgust of passion.
"You love me--you truly love me?" she questioned, between little sighsof pleasure--"Tell me!--are you sure?"
"Am I not proving it?" he answered--"Does a man behave like this if hedoes not love?"
"Ah, yes!" And she looked up with a wild piteousness in her sweeteyes--"A man will behave like this to any woman!"
He loosened his clasp of her, astonished--then laughed.
"Where did you learn that?" he asked--"Who told you men were sovolatile?"
"No one!"--and her caressing arms fell away from him--"My Amadis, youfind it pleasant to kiss and to embrace me for the moment--but perhapsnot always will you care! Love--real love is different--"
"What do YOU mean by love?" he asked still smiling.
She sighed.
"I can hardly tell you," she said--"But one thing I DO know--love wouldnever hurt or wrong the thing it loved! Words, kisses, embraces--theyare just the sweet outflow of a great deep!--but love is above andbeyond all these, like an angel living with God!"
He was silent.
She came up to him and laid her little hand timidly on his arm.
"It is time we were quite sure of that angel, my Amadis!" she said--"WeARE sure--but--"
He looked her full and quietly in the eyes.
"Yes, child!" he answered--"It is time! But I cannot talk about angelsor anything else just now--it is growing late in the afternoon and youmust not stay here too long. Come to-morrow or next day, and we'llconsult together as to what is best to be done for your happiness--"
"For yours!" she interposed, gently.
He smiled, curiously.
"Very well! As you will! For mine!"
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