Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  He folded up the note and put it in his pocket.

  “That finishes me very decisively!” he said, with a laugh at himself for his own temerity. “Who is it says a woman cannot keep a secret? She can, and will, and does! — when it suits her to do so! Never mind, Miss Armitage! I shall find you out when, you least expect it — never fear!”

  Meanwhile Miss Leigh’s little house in Kensington was the scene of mingled confusion and triumph. The “paying guest” — the little unobtrusive girl, with all her wardrobe in a satchel and her legacy of four hundred pounds in bank-notes tucked into her bosom — had achieved a success beyond her wildest dreams, and now had only to declare her identity to become a “celebrity.” Miss Lavinia had been for some days in a state of nervous excitement, knowing that it was Innocent’s first literary effort which had created such a sensation. By this time she had learned all the girl’s history — Innocent had told her everything, save and except the one fact of her parentage, — and this she held back, not out of shame for herself, but consideration for the memory of the handsome man whose portrait stood on the silent harpsichord. For she in her turn had discovered Miss Lavinia’s secret, — how the dear lady’s heart had been devoted to Pierce Armitage all her life, and how when she knew he had been drawn away from her and captivated by another woman her happiness had been struck down and withered like a flowering rose in a hard gale of wind. For this romance, and the disillusion she had suffered, Innocent loved her. The two had become fast friends, almost like devoted mother and daughter. Miss Leigh was, as she had stated in her “Morning Post” advertisement, well-connected, and she did much for the girl who had by chance brought a new and thrilling interest into her life — more than Innocent could possibly have done for herself. The history of the child, — as much as she was told of it, — who had been left so casually at a country farm on the mere chance of its being kept and taken care of, affected her profoundly, and when Innocent confided to her the fact that she had never been baptised, the gentle old lady was moved to tears. No time was lost in lifting this spiritual ban from the young life concerned, and the sacred rite was performed quietly one morning in the church which Miss Leigh had attended for many years, Miss Leigh having herself explained beforehand some of the circumstances to the Vicar, and standing as god-mother to the newly-received little Christian. And though there had arisen some question as to the name by which she should be baptised, Miss Leigh held tenaciously to the idea that she should retain the name her “unknown” father had given her— “Innocent.”

  “Suppose he should not be dead,” she said, “then if he were to meet you some day, that name might waken his memory and lead him to identify you. And I like it — it is pretty and original — quite Christian, too, — there were several Popes named Innocent.”

  The girl smiled. She thought of Robin Clifford, and how he had aired his knowledge to her on the same subject.

  “But it is a man’s name, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Not more so than a woman’s, surely!” declared Miss Leigh. “You can always call yourself ‘Ena’ for short if you like — but ‘Innocent’ is the prettier name.”

  And so “Innocent” it was, — and by the sprinkling of water and the blessing of the Church the name was finally bestowed and sanctified. Innocent herself was peacefully glad of her newly-attained spiritual dignity and called Miss Lavinia her “fairy god-mother.”

  “Do you mind?” she asked, coaxingly. “It makes me so happy to feel that you are one of those kind people in a fairy-tale, bringing good fortune and blessing. I’m sure you ARE like that!”

  Miss Lavinia protested against the sweet flattery, but all the same she was pleased. She began to take the girl out with her to the houses of various “great” personages — friends whom she knew well and who made an intimate little social circle of their own— “old-fashioned” people certainly, but happily free from the sort of suppressed rowdyism which distinguishes the “nouveaux riches” of the present day, — people who adhered rigidly to almost obsolete notions of honour and dignity, who lived simply and well within their means, who spoke reverently of things religious and believed in the old adage— “Manners makyth the man.” So by degrees, Innocent found herself among a small choice “set” chiefly made up of the fragments of the real “old” aristocracy, to which Miss Leigh herself belonged, — and, with her own quick intuition and inborn natural grace, she soon became a favourite with them all. But no one knew the secret of her literary aspirations save Miss Leigh, and when her book was published anonymously and the reading world began to talk of it as something unusual and wonderful, she was more terrified than pleased. Its success was greater than she had ever dreamed of, and her one idea was to keep up the mystery of its authorship as long as possible, but every day made this more difficult. And when John Harrington wrote to her, she felt that disclosure was imminent. She had always kept the visiting-card he had given her when they had travelled to London together, and she knew he belonged to the staff of a great and leading newspaper, — he was a man not likely to be baffled in any sort of enquiry he might choose to make. She thought about this as she sat in her quiet little room, working at the last few chapters of her second book which the publishers were eagerly waiting for. What a magical change had been wrought in her life since she left Briar Farm more than a year, aye, — nearly eighteen months ago! For one thing, all fears of financial difficulty were at an end. Her first book had brought her more money than she had ever had in her life, and the publisher’s offer for her second outweighed her most ambitious desires. She was independent — she could earn sufficient, and more than sufficient to keep herself in positive luxury if she chose, — but for this she had no taste. Her little rooms in Miss Leigh’s house satisfied all her ideas of rest and comfort, and she stayed on with the kind old lady by choice and affection, helping her in many ways, and submitting to her guidance in every little social matter with the charming humility of a docile and obedient spirit all too rare in these days when youth is more full of effrontery than modesty. She had managed her “literary” business so far well and carefully, representing herself as the private secretary of an author who wished to remain anonymous, and who had gone abroad, entrusting her with his manuscript to “place” with any suitable firm that would make a suitable offer. The ruse would hardly have succeeded in the case of any ordinary piece of work, but the book itself was of too exceptional a quality to be passed over, and the firm to which it was first offered recognised this and accepted it without parley, astute enough to see its possibilities and to risk its chances of success. And now she realised that her little plot might be discovered any day, and that she would have to declare herself as the writer of a strange and brilliant book which was the talk of the moment.

  “I wonder what they will say when they know it at Briar Farm!” she thought, with a smile and a half sigh.

  Briar Farm seemed a long way off in these days. She had written occasionally both to Priscilla and Robin Clifford; giving her address and briefly stating that she had taken the name of Armitage, feeling that she had no right to that of Jocelyn. But Priscilla could not write, and contented herself with sending her “dear love and duty and do come back soon,” through Robin, who answered for both in letters that were carefully cold and restrained. Now that he knew where she was he made no attempt to visit her, — he was too grieved and disappointed at her continued absence, and deeply hurt at what he considered her “quixotic” conduct in adopting a different name, — an “alias” as he called it.

  “You have separated yourself from your old home by your own choice in more ways than one,” he wrote, “and I see I have no right to criticise your actions. You are in a strange place and you have taken a strange name, — I cannot feel that you are Innocent, — the Innocent of our bygone happy years! It is better I should not go and see you — not unless you send for me, when, of course, I will come.”

  She was both glad and sorry for this, — she would have liked to see him again,
and yet! — well! — she knew instinctively that if they met, it would only cause him fresh unhappiness. Her new life had bestowed new grace on her personality — all the interior intellectual phases of her mind had developed in her a beauty of face and form which was rare, subtle and elusive, and though she was not conscious of it herself, she had that compelling attraction about her which few can resist, — a fascination far greater than mere physical perfection. No one could have called her actually beautiful, — hardly could it have been said she was even “pretty” — but in her slight figure and intelligent face with its large blue-grey eyes half veiled under dreamy, drooping lids and long lashes, there was a magnetic charm which was both sweet and powerful. Moreover, she dressed well, — in quiet taste, with a careful avoidance of anything foolish or eccentric in fashion, and wherever she went she made her effect as a graceful young presence expressive of repose and harmony. She spoke delightfully, — in a delicious voice, attuned to the most melodious inflections, and her constant study of the finer literature of the past gave her certain ways of expressing herself in a manner so far removed from the abrupt slanginess commonly used to-day by young people of both sexes that she was called “quaint” by some and “weird” by others of her own sex, though by men young and old she was declared “charming.” Guarded and chaperoned by good old Miss Lavinia Leigh, she had no cause to be otherwise than satisfied with her apparently reckless and unguided plunge into the mighty vortex of London, — some beneficent spirit had led her into a haven of safety and brought her straight to the goal of her ambition without difficulty.

  “Of course I owe it all to Dad,” she thought. “If it had not been for the four hundred pounds he left me to ‘buy pretties’ with I could not have done anything. I have bought my ‘pretties’! — not bridal ones — but things so much better!”

  As the memory of her “Dad” came over her, tears sprang to her eyes. In her mind she saw the smooth green pastures round Briar Farm — the beautiful old gabled house, — the solemn trees waving their branches in the wind over the tomb of the “Sieur Amadis,” — the doves wheeling round and round in the clear air, and her own “Cupid” falling like a snowflake from the roof to her caressing hand. All the old life of country sights and sounds passed before her like a fair mirage, giving place to dark days of sorrow, disillusion and loss, — the fleeting glimpse of her self-confessed “mother,” Lady Maude Blythe, — and the knowledge she had so unexpectedly gained as to the actual identity of her father — he, whose portrait was in the very house to which she had come through no more romantic means than a chance advertisement in the “Morning Post!” And Miss Lavinia — her “fairy godmother” — could she have found a better friend, even in any elf stepping out of a magic pumpkin?

  “If she ever knows the truth — if I am ever able to tell her that I am HIS daughter,” she said to herself, “I wonder if she will care for me less or more? But I must not tell her! — She says he was so good and noble! It would break her heart to think he had done anything wrong — or that he had deserted his child.”

  And so she held her peace on this point, though she was often tempted to break silence whenever Miss Leigh reverted to the story of her being left in such a casual, yet romantic way at Briar Farm.

  “I wonder who the handsome man was, my dear?” she would query— “Perhaps he’ll go back to the place and enquire for you. He may be some very great personage!”

  And Innocent would smile and shake her head.

  “I fear not, my godmother!” she would reply. “You must not have any fairy dreams about me! I was just a deserted baby — not wanted in the world — but the world may have to take me all the same!”

  And her eyes would flash, and her sensitive mouth would quiver as the vision of fame like a mystical rainbow circled the heaven of her youthful imagination — while Miss Leigh would sigh, and listen and wonder, — she, whose simple hope and faith had been centred in a love which had proved false and vain, — praying that the girl might realise her ambition without the wreckage and disillusion of her life.

  One evening — an evening destined to mark a turning-point in Innocent’s destiny — they went together to an “At Home” held at a beautiful studio in the house of an artist deservedly famous. Miss Leigh had a great taste for pictures, no doubt fostered since the early days of her romantic attachment to a man who had painted them, — and she knew most of the artists whose names were more or less celebrated in the modern world. Her host on this special occasion was what is called a “fashionable” portrait painter, — from the Queen downwards he had painted the “counterfeit presentments” of ladies of wealth and title, flattering them as delicately as his really clever brush would allow, and thereby securing golden opinions as well as golden guineas. He was a genial, breezy sort of man, — quite without vanity or any sort of “art” ostentation, and he had been a friend of Miss Leigh’s for many years. Innocent loved going to his studio whenever her “godmother” would take her, and he, in his turn, found interest and amusement in talking to a girl who showed such a fresh, simple and unworldly nature, united to intelligence and perception far beyond her years. On the particular evening in question the studio was full of notable people, — not uncomfortably crowded, but sufficiently so as to compose a brilliant effect of colour and movement — beautiful women in wonderful attire fluttered to and fro like gaily-plumaged birds among the conventionally dark-clothed men who stood about in that aimless fashion they so often affect when disinclined to talk or to make themselves agreeable, — and there was a pleasantly subdued murmur of voices, — cultured voices, well-attuned, and incapable of breaking into the sheep-like snigger or asinine bray. Innocent, keeping close beside her “god-mother,” watched the animated scene with happy interest, unconscious that many of those present watched her in turn with a good deal of scarcely restrained curiosity. For, somehow or other, rumour had whispered a flying word or two that it was possible she — even she — that young, childlike-looking creature — might be, and probably was the actual author of the clever book everybody was talking about, and though no one had the hardihood to ask her point-blank if the report was true, people glanced at her inquisitively and murmured their “asides” of suggestion or incredulity, finding it difficult to believe that a woman could at any time or by any means, alone and unaided, snatch one flower from the coronal of fame. She looked very fair and sweet and NON-literary, clad in a simple white gown made of some softly clinging diaphanous material, wholly unadorned save by a small posy of natural roses at her bosom, — and as she stood a little apart from the throng, several artists noticed the grace of her personality — one especially, a rather handsome man of middle age, who gazed at her observantly and critically with a frank openness which, though bold, was scarcely rude. She caught the straight light of his keen blue eyes — and a thrill ran through her whole being, as though she had been suddenly influenced by a magnetic current — then she flushed deeply as she fancied she saw him smile. For the first time in her life she found pleasure in the fact that a man had looked at her with plainly evinced admiration in his fleeting glance, — and she watched him talking to several people who all seemed delighted and flattered by his notice — then he disappeared. Later on in the evening she asked her host who he was. The famous R.A. considered for a moment.

  “Do you mean a man with rough dark hair and a youngish face? — rather good-looking in an eccentric sort of way?”

  Innocent nodded eagerly.

  “Yes! And he had blue eyes.”

  “Had he, really!” And the great artist smiled. “Well, I’m sure he would be flattered at your close observation of him! I think I know him, — that is, I know him as much as he will let anybody know him — he is a curious fellow, but a magnificent painter — a real genius! He’s half French by descent, and his name is Jocelyn, — Amadis de Jocelyn.”

  For a moment the room went round in a giddy whirl of colour before her eyes, — she could not credit her own hearing. Amadis de Jocelyn! — the name of
her old stone Knight of France, on his tomb at Briar Farm, with his motto— “Mon coeur me soutien!”

  “Amadis de Jocelyn!” she repeated, falteringly … “Are you sure? … I mean … is that his name really? … it’s so unusual… so curious…”

  “Yes — it IS curious” — agreed her host— “but it’s quite a good old French name, belonging to a good old French family. The Jocelyns bore arms for the Duc d’Anjou in the reign of Queen Elizabeth — and this man is a sort of last descendant, very proud of his ancestry. I’ll bring him along and introduce him to you if you’ll allow me.”

  Innocent murmured something — she scarcely knew what, — and in a few minutes found herself giving the conventional bow in response to the formal words— “Miss Armitage, Mr. de Jocelyn” — and looking straight up at the blue eyes that a short while since had flashed an almost compelling glance into her own. A strange sense of familiarity and recognition moved her; something of the expression of her “Dad” was in the face of this other Jocelyn of whom she knew nothing, — and her heart beat so quickly that she could scarcely speak in answer when he addressed her, as he did in a somewhat abrupt manner.

  “Are you an art student?”

  She smiled a little.

  “Oh no! I am — nothing! … I love pictures of course—”

  “There is no ‘of course’ in it,” he said, a humorous curve lifting the corners of his moustache— “You’re not bound to love pictures at all! Most people hate them, and scarcely anybody understands them!”

  She listened, charmed by the mellow and deep vibration of his voice.

  “Everybody comes to see our friend here,” he continued, with a slight gesture of his hand towards their host, who had moved away,— “because he is the fashion. If he were NOT the fashion he might paint like Velasquez or Titian and no one would care a button!”

  He seemed entertained by his own talk, and she did not interrupt him.