Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “You look like a stranger here,” he went on, in milder accents— “a sort of elf who has lost her way out of fairyland! Is anyone with you?”

  “Yes,” she answered, quickly— “Miss Leigh—”

  “Miss Leigh? Who is she? Your aunt or your chaperone?”

  She was more at her ease now, and laughed at his quick, brusque manner of speech.

  “Miss Leigh is my godmother,” she said— “I call her my fairy godmother because she is always so good and kind. There she is, standing by that big easel.”

  He looked in the direction indicated.

  “Oh yes! — I see! A charming old lady! I love old ladies when they don’t pretend to be young. That white hair of hers is very picturesque! So she is your godmother! — and she takes care of you! Well! She might do worse!”

  He ruffled his thick crop of hair and looked at her more or less quizzically.

  “You have an air of suppressed enquiry,” he said— “There is something on your mind! You want to ask me a question — what is it?”

  A soft colour flew over her cheeks — she was confused to find him reading her thoughts.

  “It is really nothing!” she answered, quickly— “I was only wondering a little about your name — because it is one I have known all my life.”

  His eyebrows went up in surprise.

  “Indeed? This is very interesting! I thought I was the only wearer of such a very medieval appellation! Is there another so endowed?”

  “There WAS another — long, long ago” — and, unconsciously to herself her delicate features softened into a dreamy and rapt expression as she spoke, — while her voice fell into its sweetest and most persuasive tone. “He was a noble knight of France, and he came over to England with the Due d’ Anjou when the great Elizabeth was Queen. He fell in love with a very beautiful Court lady, who would not care for him at all, — so, as he was unhappy and broken-hearted, he went away from London and hid himself from everybody in the far country. There he bought an old manor-house and called it Briar Farm — and he married a farmer’s daughter and settled in England for good — and he had six sons and daughters. And when he died he was buried on his own land — and his effigy is on his tomb — it was sculptured by himself. I used to put flowers on it, just where his motto was carved— ‘Mon coeur me soutien.’ For I — I was brought up at Briar Farm… and I was quite fond of the Sieur Amadis!”

  She looked up with a serious, sweet luminance in her eyes — and he was suddenly thrilled by her glance, and moved by a desire to turn her romantic idyll into something of reality. This feeling was merely the physical one of an amorously minded man, — he knew, or thought he knew, women well enough to hold them at no higher estimate than that of sex-attraction, — yet, with all the cynicism he had attained through long experience of the world and its ways, he recognised a charm in this fair little creature that was strange and new and singularly fascinating, while the exquisite modulations of her voice as she told the story of the old French knight, so simply yet so eloquently, gave her words the tenderness of a soft song well sung.

  “A pity you should waste fondness on a man of stone!” he said, lightly, bending his keen steel-blue eyes on hers. “But what you tell me is most curious, for your ‘Sieur Amadis’ must be the missing branch of my own ancestral tree. May I explain? — or will it bore you?”

  She gave him a swift, eager glance.

  “Bore me?” she echoed— “How could it? Oh, do please let me know everything — quickly!”

  He smiled at her enthusiasm.

  “We’ll sit down here out of the crowd,” he said, — and, taking her arm gently, he guided her to a retired corner of the studio which was curtained off to make a cosy and softly cushioned recess. “You have told me half a romance! Perhaps I can supply the other half.” He paused, looking at her, whimsically pleased to see the warm young blood flushing her cheeks as he spoke, and her eyes drooping under his penetrating gaze. “Long, long ago — as you put it — in the days of good Queen Bess, there lived a certain Hugo de Jocelin, a nobleman of France, famed for fierce deeds of arms, and for making himself generally disagreeable to his neighbours with whom he was for ever at cross-purposes. This contentious personage had two sons, — Jeffrey and Amadis, — also knights-at-arms, inheriting the somewhat excitable nature of their father; and the younger of these, Amadis, whose name I bear, was selected by the Duc d’Anjou to accompany him with his train of nobles and gentles, when that ‘petit grenouille’ as he called himself, went to England to seek Queen Elizabeth’s hand in marriage. The Duke failed in his ambitious quest, as we all know, and many of his attendants got scattered and dispersed, — among them Amadis, who was entirely lost sight of, and never returned again to the home of his fathers. He was therefore supposed to be dead—”

  “MY Amadis!” murmured Innocent, her eyes shining like stars as she listened.

  “YOUR Amadis! — yes!” And his voice softened. “Of course he must have been YOUR Amadis! — your ‘Knight of old and warrior bold!’ Well! None of his own people ever heard of him again — and in the family tree he is marked as missing. But Jeffrey stayed at home in France, — and in due course inherited his father’s grim old castle and lands. He married, and had a large family, — much larger than the six olive-branches allotted to your friend of Briar Farm,” — and he smiled. “He, Jeffrey, is my ancestor, and I can trace myself back to him in direct lineage, so you see I have quite the right to my curious name!”

  She clasped and unclasped her little hands nervously — she was shy of raising her eyes to his face.

  “It is wonderful!” she murmured— “I can hardly believe it possible that

  I should meet here in London a real Jocelyn! — one of the family of the

  Sieur Amadis!”

  “Does it seem strange?” He laughed. “Oh no! Nothing is strange in this queer little world! But I don’t quite know what the exact connection is between me and your knight — it’s too difficult for me to grasp! I suppose I’m a sort of great-great-great-grand-nephew! However, nothing can alter the fact that I am also an Amadis de Jocelyn!”

  She glanced up at him quickly.

  “You are, indeed!” she said. “It is you who ought to be the master of

  Briar Farm!”

  “Ought I?” He was amused at her earnestness. “Why?”

  “Because there is no direct heir now to the Sieur Amadis!” she answered, almost sadly. “His last descendant is dead. His name was Hugo — Hugo Jocelyn — and he was a farmer, and he left all he had to his nephew, the only child of his sister who died before him. The nephew is very good, and clever, too, — he was educated at Oxford, — but he is not an actually lineal descendant.”

  He laughed again, this time quite heartily, at the serious expression of her face.

  “That’s very terrible!” he said. “I don’t know when I’ve heard anything so lamentable! And I’m afraid I can’t put matters right! I should never do for a farmer — I’m a painter. I had better go down and see this famous old place, and the tomb of my ever so great-great-grand-uncle! I could make a picture of it — I ought to do that, as it belonged to the family of my ancestors. Will you take me?”

  She gave him a little fleeting, reluctant smile.

  “You are making fun of it all,” she said. “That is not wise of you! You should not laugh at grave and noble things.”

  He was charmed with her quaintness.

  “Was he grave and noble? — Amadis, I mean?” he asked, his blue eyes sparkling with a kind of mirthful ardour. “You are sure? Well, all honour to him! And to YOU — for believing in him! I hope you’ll consider me kindly for his sake! Will you?”

  A quick blush suffused her cheeks.

  “Of course! — I must do so!” she answered, simply. “I owe him so much—” then, fearful of betraying her secret of literary authorship, she hesitated— “I mean — he taught me all I know. I studied all his old books….”

  Just then their cheery host came up
.

  “Well! Have you made friends? Ah! — I see you have! Mutual intelligence, mutual comprehension! Jocelyn, will you bring Miss Innocent in to supper? — I leave her in your charge.”

  “Miss Innocent?” repeated Jocelyn, doubtful as to whether this was said by way of a joke or not.

  “Yes — some people call her Ena — but her real name is Innocent. Isn’t it, little lady?”

  She smiled and coloured. Jocelyn looked at her with a curious intentness.

  “Really? Your name is Innocent?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she answered him— “I’m afraid it’s a very unusual name—”

  “It is indeed!” he said with emphasis. “Innocent by name and by nature!

  Will you come?”

  She rose at once, and they moved away together.

  CHAPTER II

  Chance and coincidence play curious pranks with human affairs, and one of the most obvious facts of daily experience is that the merest trifle, occurring in the most haphazard way, will often suffice to change 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 should suddenly bethink himself of a new and strange melody, and, pleasing his fancy with the innovation, should wilfully introduce it at the last moment, thereby creating more or less of a surprise for the audience. Something of this kind happened to Innocent after her meeting with the painter who bore the name of her long idealised knight of France, Amadis de Jocelin. She soon learned that he was a somewhat famous personage, — famous for his genius, his scorn of accepted rules, and his contempt for all “puffery,” push and patronage, as well as for his brusquerie in society and carelessness of conventions. She also heard that his works had been rejected twice by the Royal Academy Council, a reason he deemed all-sufficient for never appealing to that exclusive school of favouritism again, — while everything he chose to send was eagerly accepted by the French Salon, and purchased as soon as exhibited. His name had begun to stand very high — and his original character and personality made him somewhat of a curiosity among men — one more feared than favoured. He took a certain pleasure in analysing his own disposition for the benefit of any of his acquaintances who chose to listen, — and the harsh judgment he passed on himself was not altogether without justice or truth.

  “I am an essentially selfish man,” he would say— “I have met selfishness everywhere among my fellow men and women, and have imbibed it as a sponge imbibes water. I’ve had a fairly hard time, and I’ve experienced the rough side of human nature, getting more kicks than halfpence. Now that the kicks have ceased I’m in no mood for soft soap. I know the humbug of so-called ‘friendship’ — the rarity of sincerity — and as for love! — there’s no such thing permanently in man, woman or child. What is called ‘love’ is merely a comfortable consciousness that one particular person is agreeable and useful to you for a time — but it’s only for a time — and marriage which seeks to bind two people together till death is the heaviest curse ever imposed on manhood or womanhood! Devotion and self-sacrifice are merest folly — the people you sacrifice yourself for are never worth it, and devotion is generally, if not always, misplaced. The only thing to do in this life is to look after yourself, — serve yourself — please yourself! No one will do anything for you unless they can get something out of it for their own advantage, — you’re bound to follow the general example!”

  Notwithstanding this candid confession of cynical egotism, the man had greatness in him, and those who knew his works readily recognised his power. The impression he had made on Innocent’s guileless and romantic nature was beyond analysis, — she did not try to understand it herself. His name and the connection he had with the old French knight of her childhood’s dreams and fancies had moved and roused her to a new interest in life — and just as she had hitherto been unwilling to betray the secret of her literary authorship, she was now eager to have it declared — for one reason only, — that he might perhaps think well of her. Whereby it will be seen that the poor child, endowed with a singular genius as she was, knew nothing of men and their never-failing contempt for the achievements of gifted women. Delicate of taste and sensitive in temperament she was the very last sort of creature to realise the ugly truth that men, taken en masse, consider women in one only way — that of sex, — as the lower half of man, necessary to man’s continuance, but always the mere vessel of his pleasure. To her, Amadis de Jocelyn was the wonderful realisation of an ideal, — but she was very silent concerning him, — reserved and almost cold. This rather surprised good Miss Lavinia Leigh, whose romantic tendencies had been greatly stirred by the story of the knight of Briar Farm and the discovery of a descendant of the same family in one of the most admired artists of the day. They visited Jocelyn’s studio together — a vast, bare place, wholly unadorned by the tawdry paraphernalia which is sometimes affected by third-rate men to create an “art” impression on the minds of the uninstructed — and they had stood lost in wonder and admiration before a great picture he was painting on commission, entitled “Wild Weather.” It was what is called by dealers an “important work,” and represented night closing in over a sea lashed into fury by the sweep of a stormy wind. So faithfully was the scene of terror and elemental confusion rendered that it was like nature itself, and the imaginative eye almost looked for the rising waves to tumble liquidly from the painted canvas and break on the floor in stretches of creamy foam. Gentle Miss Leigh was conscious of a sudden beating of the heart as she looked at this masterpiece of form and colour, — it reminded her of the work of Pierce Armitage. She ventured to say so, with a little hesitation, and Jocelyn caught at the name.

  “Armitage? — Yes — he was beginning to be rather famous some five-and-twenty years ago — I wonder what became of him? He promised great things. By the way” — and he turned to Innocent— “YOUR name is Armitage! 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,” he said— “You will hardly find two of ME! — and I expect I shall hardly find two of YOU!” and he smiled— “especially if what I have heard is anything 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!” he said— “There! You have it! I’m loth to believe it, and hope the report isn’t true, for I’m afraid of clever women! Indeed I avoid them whenever I can!”

  A sudden sense of hopelessness and loss fell over her like a cloud — her lips 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 so delightfully ignorant of the ways of our sex, and I for one heartily wish you might always remain so! But we men are proverbially selfish-and we like to consider cleverness, or ‘genius’ if you will, as our own exclusive property. We hate the feminine poacher on our particular preserves! We consider that women were made to charm and to amuse us — not to equal us. Do you see? When a woman is clever — perhaps cleverer than we are — she ceases to be amusing — and we must be amused! We cannot have our fun spoiled by the blue-stocking element, — though you — YOU do not look in the least ‘blue’!”

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

  “No — Innocent is certainly not ‘blue,’” she said, sweetly— “If by that term you mean ‘advanced’ or in any way unwomanly. But she has been singularly gifted by nature — yes,
dear child, I must be allowed to speak!” — this, as Innocent made an appealing gesture,— “and if people say she is the author of the book that is just now being so much talked of, they are only saying the truth. The secret cannot be kept much longer.”

  He heard — then went quickly up to the girl where she stood in a somewhat dejected attitude near his easel.

  “Then it IS true!” he said— “I heard it yesterday from an old journalist friend of mine, John Harrington — but I couldn’t quite believe 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 wordless language which made her heart beat foolishly and her nerves thrill. She forgot the easy mockery which had distinguished his manner since when speaking of the “blue-stocking element”-and once more “Amadis de Jocelyn” sat firmly on her throne of the ideal!

  That very afternoon, on her return from Jocelyn’s studio to Miss Leigh’s little house in Kensington which she now called her “home” — she found a reply-paid telegram from her publishers, running thus:

  “Eminent journalist John Harrington reviews book favourably in evening paper suggesting that you are the actual author. May we deny or confirm?”

  She thought for some minutes before deciding — and went to Miss Leigh with the telegram in her hand.

  “Godmother mine!” she said, kneeling down beside her— “Tell me, what shall I do? Is it any use continuing to wear the veil of mystery? Shall I 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 about it! You would rather remain quietly in your own dreamland than face the criticism of the world, or be pointed out as a ‘celebrity’ — yes, I quite understand! But I think you must, in justice to yourself and others, ‘take up the burden’ — as you put it — yes, child! You must wear your laurels, though for you I should prefer the rose!”