Miss Leigh hesitated.
“I hardly know how to put it,” she answered, at last— “She’s a kind-hearted woman — very generous — and most helpful in works of charity. I never knew such energy as she shows in organising charity bails and bazaars! — perfectly wonderful! — but she likes to live her life—”
“Who would not!” murmured the girl, scarcely audibly.
“And she lives it — very much so! — rather to the dregs!” continued the old lady, with emphasis. “She has no real aim beyond the satisfaction of her own vanity and social power — and you, with your beautiful thoughts and ideals, might not like the kind of people she surrounds herself with — people, who only want amusement and ‘sensation’ — particularly sensation—”
Innocent said nothing for a minute or two — then she looked up, brightly.
“To go or not to go, godmother mine! Which is it to be? The decision rests with you! Yes, or no?”
“I think it must be ‘yes’” — and Miss Leigh emphasised the word with a little nod of her head. “It would be unwise to refuse — especially just now when everyone is talking of you and wishing to see you. And you are quite worth seeing!”
The girl gave a slight gesture of indifference and moved away slowly and listlessly, as though fatigued by the mere effort of speech. Miss Leigh noted this with some concern, watching her as she went, and admiring the supple grace of her small figure, the well-shaped little head so proudly poised on the slim throat, and the burnished sheen of her bright hair.
“She grows prettier every day,” she thought— “But not happier, I fear! — not happier, poor child!”
Innocent meanwhile, upstairs in her own little study, was reading and re-reading a brief letter which had come for her by the same post that had delivered the Duchess’s invitation.
“I hear you are among the guests invited to the Duchess of Deanshire’s party,” it ran— “I hope you will go — for the purely selfish reason that I want to meet you there. Hers is a great house with plenty of room, and a fine garden — for London. People crowd to her ‘crushes’, but one can always escape the mob. I have seen so little of you lately, and you are now so famous that I shall think myself lucky if I may touch the hem of your garment. Will you encourage me thus far? Like Hamlet, ‘I lack advancement’! When will you take me to Briar Farm? I should like to see the tomb of my very ancestral uncle — could we not arrange a day’s outing in the country while the weather is fine? I throw myself on your consideration and clemency for this — and for many other unwritten things!
Yours,
AMADIS DE JOCELYN.”
There was nothing in this easily worded scrawl to make an ordinarily normal heart beat faster, yet the heart of this simple child of the gods, gifted with genius and deprived of worldly wisdom as all such divine children are, throbbed uneasily, and her eyes were wet. More than this, she touched the signature, — the long-familiar name — with her soft lips, — and as though afraid of what she had done, hurriedly folded the letter and locked it away.
Then she sat down and thought. Nearly two years had elapsed since she had left Briar Farm, and in that short time she had made the name she had adopted famous. She could not call it her own name; born out of wedlock, she had no right, by the stupid law, to the name of her father. She could, legally, have worn the maiden name of her mother had she known it — but she did not know it. And what she was thinking of now, was this: Should she tell her lately discovered second “Amadis de Jocelyn” the true story of her birth and parentage at this, the outset of their friendship, before — well, before it went any further? She could not consult Miss Leigh on the point, without smirching the reputation of Pierce Armitage, the man whose memory was enshrined in that dear lady’s heart as a thing of unsullied honour. She puzzled herself over the question for a long time, and then decided to keep her own counsel.
“After all, why should I tell him?” she asked herself. “It might make trouble — he is so proud of his lineage, and I too am proud of it for him! … why should I let him know that I inherit nothing but my mother’s shame!”
Her heart grew heavy as her position was thus forced back upon her by her own thoughts. Up to the present no one had asked who she was, or where she came from — she was understood to be an orphan, left alone in the world, who by her own genius and unaided effort had lifted herself into the front rank among the “shining lights” of the day. This, so far, had been sufficient information for all with whom she had come in contact — but as time went on, would not people ask more about her? — who were her father and mother? — where she was born? — how she had been educated? These inquisitorial demands were surely among the penalties of fame! And, if she told the truth, would she not, despite the renown she had won, be lightly, even scornfully esteemed by conventional society as a “bastard” and interloper, though the manner of her birth was no fault of her own, and she was unjustly punishable for the sins of her parents, such being the wicked law!
The night of the Duchess’s reception was one of those close sultry nights of June in London when the atmosphere is well-nigh as suffocating as that of some foetid prison where criminals have been pacing their dreary round all day. Royal Ascot was just over, and space and opportunity were given for several social entertainments to be conveniently checked off before Henley. Outside the Duke’s great house there was a constant stream of motor-cars and taxi-cabs; a passing stranger might have imagined all the world and his wife were going to the Duchess’s “At Home.” It was difficult to effect an entrance, but once inside, the scene was one of veritable enchantment. The lovely hues and odours of flowers, the softened glitter of thousands of electric lamps shaded with rose-colour, the bewildering brilliancy of women’s clothes and jewels, the exquisite music pouring like a rippling stream through the magnificent reception-rooms, all combined to create a magical effect of sensuous beauty and luxury; and as Innocent, accompanied by the sweet-faced old-fashioned lady who played the part of chaperone with such gentle dignity, approached her hostess, she was a little dazzled and nervous. Her timidity made her look all the more charming — she had the air of a wondering child called up to receive an unexpected prize at school. She shrank visibly when her name was shouted out in a stentorian voice by the gorgeously liveried major-domo in attendance, quite unaware that it created a thrill throughout the fashionable assemblage, and that all eyes were instantly upon her. The Duchess, diamond-crowned and glorious in gold-embroidered tissue, kept back by a slight gesture the pressing crowd of guests, and extended her hand with marked graciousness and a delightful smile.
“SUCH a pleasure and honour!” she said, sweetly— “So good of you to come! You will give me a few words with you later on? Yes? Everybody will want to speak to you! — but you must let me have a chance too!”
Innocent murmured something gently deprecatory as a palliative to this sort of society “gush” which always troubled her — and moved on. Everybody gazed, whispered and wondered, astonished at the youth and evident unworldliness of the “author of those marvellous books!” — so the commentary ran; — the women criticised her gown, which was one of pale blue silken stuff caught at the waist and shoulders by quaint clasps of dull gold — a gown with nothing remarkable about it save its cut and fit — melting itself, as it were, around her in harmonious folds of fine azure which suggested without emphasising the graceful lines of her form. The men looked, and said nothing much except “A pity she’s a writing woman! Mucking about Fleet Street!” — mere senseless talk which they knew to be senseless, inasmuch as “mucking” about Fleet Street is no part of any writer’s business save that of the professional journalist. Happily ignorant of comment, the girl made her way quietly and unobtrusively through the splendid throng, till she was presently addressed by a stoutish, pleasant-featured man, with small twinkling eyes and an agreeable surface manner.
“I missed you just now when my wife received you,” he said— “May I present myself? I am your host — proud of the p
rivilege!”
Innocent smiled as she bowed and held out her hand; she was amused, and taken a little by surprise. This was the Duke of Deanshire — this quite insignificant-looking personage — he was the owner of the great house and the husband of the great lady, — and yet he had the appearance of a very ordinary nobody. But that he was a “somebody” of paramount importance there was no doubt; and when he said, “May I give you my arm and take you through the rooms? There are one or two pictures you may like to see,” she was a little startled. She looked round for Miss Leigh, but that tactful lady, seeing the position, had disappeared. So she laid her little cream-gloved hand on the Duke’s arm and went with him, shyly at first, yet with a pretty stateliness which was all her own, and moving slowly among the crowd of guests, gradually recovered her ease and self-possession, and began to talk to him with a delightful naturalness and candour which fairly captivated His Grace, in fact, “bowled him over,” as he afterwards declared. She was blissfully unaware that his manner of escorting her on his arm through the long vista of the magnificent rooms had been commanded and arranged by the Duchess, in order that she should be well looked at and criticised by all assembled as the “show” person of the evening. She was so unconscious of the ordeal to which she was being subjected that she bore it with the perfect indifference which such unconsciousness gives. All at once the Duke came to a standstill.
“Here is a great friend of mine — one of the best I have in the world,” he said— “I want to introduce him to you,” — this, as a tall old man paused near them with a smile and enquiring glance, “Lord Blythe — Miss Armitage.”
Innocent’s heart gave a wild bound; for a moment she felt a struggling sensation in her throat moving her to cry out, and it was only with a violent effort that she repressed herself.
“You’ve heard of Miss Armitage — Ena Armitage, — haven’t you, Blythe?” went on the Duke, garrulously. “Of course! all the world has heard of her!”
“Indeed it has!” and Lord Blythe bowed ceremoniously. “May I congratulate you on winning your laurels while you are young enough to enjoy them! One moment! — my wife is most anxious to meet you—”
He turned to look for her, while Innocent, trembling violently, wondered desperately whether it would be possible for her to run away! — anywhere — anywhere, rather than endure what she knew must come! The Duke noticed her sudden pallor with concern.
“Are you cold?” he asked— “I hope there is no draught—”
“Oh no — no!” she murmured— “It is nothing—”
Then she braced herself up in every nerve — drawing her little body erect, as though a lily should lift itself to the sun — she saw Lord Blythe approaching with a handsome woman dressed in silvery grey and wearing a coronet of emeralds — and in one more moment looked full in the face — of her mother!
“Lady Blythe — Miss Armitage.”
Lady Blythe turned white to the lips. Her dark eyes opened widely in amazement and fear — she put out a hand as though to steady herself. Her husband caught it, alarmed.
“Maude! Are you ill?”
“Not at all!” and she forced a laugh. “I am perfectly — perfectly well! — a little faint perhaps! The heat, I think! Yes — of course! Miss Armitage — the famous author! I am — I am very proud to meet you!”
“Most kind of you!” said Innocent, quietly.
And they still looked at each other, very strangely.
The men beside them were a little embarrassed, the Duke twirled his short white moustache, and Lord Blythe glanced at his wife with some wonder and curiosity. Both imagined, with the usual short-sightedness of the male sex, that the women had taken a sudden fantastic dislike to one another.
“By jove, she’s jealous!” thought the Duke, fully aware that Lady
Blythe was occasionally “moved that way.”
“The girl seems frightened of her,” was Lord Blythe’s inward comment, knowing that his wife did not always create a sympathetic atmosphere.
But her ladyship was soon herself again and laughed quite merrily at her husband’s anxious expression.
“I’m all right — really!” she said, with a quick, almost defiant turn of her head towards him, the emeralds in her dark hair flashing with a sinister gleam like lightning on still water. “You must remember it’s rather overwhelming to be introduced to a famous author and think of just the right thing to say at the right moment! Isn’t it, Miss Armitage?”
“It is as you feel,” replied Innocent, coldly.
Lady Blythe rattled on gaily.
“Do come and talk to me for a few moments! — it will be so good of you! The garden’s lovely! — shall we go there? Now, my dear Duke, don’t look so cross, I’ll bring her back to you directly!” and she nodded pleasantly. “You want her, of course! — everybody wants her! — such a celebrity!” then, turning again to Innocent, “Will you come?”
As one in a dream the girl obeyed her inviting gesture, and they passed out of the room together through a large open French window to a terraced garden, dimly illumined in the distance by the glitter of fairy lamps, but for the most part left to the tempered brilliancy of a misty red moon. Once away from the crowd, Lady Blythe walked quickly and impatiently, scarcely looking at the youthful figure that accompanied her own, like a fair ghost gliding step for step beside her. At last she stopped; they were well away from the house in a quaint bit of garden shaded with formal fir-trees and clipped yews, where a fountain dashed up a slender spiral thread of white spray. A strange sense of fury in her broke loose; with pale face and cruel, glittering eyes she turned upon her daughter.
“How dare you!” she half whispered, through her set teeth— “How dare you!”
Innocent drew back a step, and looked at her steadfastly.
“I do not understand you,” she said.
“You do understand! — you understand only too well!” and Lady Blythe put her hand to the pearls at her throat as though she felt them choking her. “Oh, I could strike you for your insolence! I wish I had never sought you out or told you how you were born! Is this your revenge for the manner of your birth, that you come to shame me among my own class — my own people—”
Innocent’s eyes flashed with a fire seldom seen in their soft depths.
“Shame you?” she echoed. “I? What shame have I brought you? What shame shall I bring? Had you owned me as your child I would have made you proud of me! I would have given you honour, — you abandoned me to strangers, and I have made honour for myself! Shame is YOURS and yours only! — it would be mine if I had to acknowledge YOU as my mother! — you who never had the courage to be true!” Her young voice thrilled with passion.— “I have won my own way! I am something beyond and above you!— ‘your own class — your own people,’ as you call them, are at MY feet, — and you — you who played with my father’s heart and spoilt his career — you have lived to know that I, his deserted child, have made his name famous!”
Lady Blythe stared at her like some enraged cat ready to spring.
“His name — his name!” she muttered, fiercely. “Yes, and how dare you take it? You have no right to it in law!”
“Wise law, just law!” said the girl, passionately. “Would you rather I had taken yours? I might have done so had I known it — though I think not, as I should have been ashamed of any ‘maiden’ name you had dishonoured! When you came to Briar Farm to find me — to see me — so late, so late! — after long years of desertion — I told you it was possible to make a name; — one cannot go nameless through the world! I have made mine! — independently and honestly — in fact” — and she smiled, a sad cold smile— “it is an honour for you, my mother, to know me, your daughter!”
Lady Blythe’s face grew ghastly pale in the uncertain light of the half-veiled moon. She moved a step and caught the girl’s arm with some violence.
“What do you mean to do?” she asked, in an angry whisper, “I must know! What are your plans of vengeance? — your cam
paign of notoriety? — your scheme of self-advertisement? What claim will you make?”
“None!” and Innocent looked at her fully, with calm and fearless dignity. “I have no claim upon you, thank God! I am less to you than a dropped lamb, lost in a thicket of thorns, is to the sheep that bore it! That’s a rough country simile, — I was brought up on a farm, you know! — but it will serve your case. Think nothing of me, as I think nothing of you! What I am, or what I may be to the world, is my own affair!”
There was a pause. Presently Lady Blythe gave a kind of shrill hysterical laugh.
“Then, when we meet in society, as we have met to-night, it will be as comparative strangers?”
“Why, of course! — we have always been strangers,” the girl replied, quietly. “No strangers were ever more strange to each other than we!”
“You mean to keep MY secret? — and your own?”
“Certainly. Do you suppose I would give my father’s name to slander?”
“Your father! — you talk of your father as if HE was worth consideration! — he was chiefly to blame for your position—”
“Was he? I am not quite sure of that,” said Innocent, slowly— “I do not know all the circumstances. But I have heard that he was a great artist; and that some woman he loved ruined his life. And I believe you are that woman!”
Lady Blythe laughed — a hard mirthless laugh.
“Believe what you like!” she said— “You are an imaginative little fool! When you know more of the world you will find out that men ruin women’s lives as casually as cracking nuts, but they take jolly good care of their own skins! Pierce Armitage was too selfish a man to sacrifice his own pleasure and comfort for anyone — he was glad to get rid of me — and of YOU! And now — now!” She threw up her hands with an expressive, half-tragic gesture. “Now you are famous! — actually famous! Good heavens! — why, I thought you would stay in that old farmhouse all your life, scrubbing the floors and looking after the poultry, and perhaps marrying some good-natured country yokel! Famous! — you! — with social London dancing attendance on you! What a ghastly comedy!” She laughed again. “Come! — we must go back to the house.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 819