“You might do so,” he continued— “And it would not be wise! — neither for you in your career, nor for me in mine. You are famous, — your name is being talked of everywhere — you must be very careful. No one must know we are lovers.”
She thrilled at the word “lovers,” and her hand trembled in his.
“No one shall know,” she said.
“Not even Miss Leigh,” he insisted.
“If I say ‘no one’ of course I mean ‘no one,’” she answered, gently— “not even Miss Leigh.”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, relieved by this assurance. He wanted his little “amour” to go on without suspicion or interference, and he felt instinctively that if this girl made any sort of a promise she would fulfil it.
“You can keep a secret then?” he said, playfully— “Unlike most women!”
She looked up at him, smiling.
“Do men keep secrets better?” she asked. “I think not! Will you, for instance, keep mine?”
“Yours?” And for a moment he was puzzled, being a man who thought chiefly of himself and his own pleasure for the moment. “What is your secret?”
She laughed. “Oh, ‘Sieur Amadis’! You pretend not to know! Is it not the same as yours? You must not tell anybody that I — I—”
He understood-and pressed hard the little hand he held.
“That you — well? Go on! I must not tell anybody — what?”
“That I love you!” she said, in a tone so grave and sweet and angelically tender, that for a second he was smitten with a sudden sense of shame.
Was it right to steal all this unspoilt treasure of love from a heart so warm and susceptible? Was it fair to enter such an ivory castle of dreams and break open all the “magic casements opening on the foam, Of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn”? He was silent, having no response to give to the simple ardour of her utterance. What he felt for her was what all men feel for each woman who in turn attracts their wandering fancies — the desire of conquest and possession. He was moved to this desire by the irritating fact that this girl had startled an apathetic public on both sides of the Atlantic by the display of her genius in the short space of two years — whereas he had been more than fifteen years intermittently at work without securing any such fame. To throw the lasso of Love round the flying Pegasus on which she rode so lightly and securely, would be an excitement and amusement which he was not inclined to forgo — a triumph worth attaining. But love such as she imagined love to be, was not in his nature — he conceived of it merely as a powerful physical attraction which exerted its influence between two persons of opposite sexes and lasted for a certain time — then waned and wore off — and he recognised marriage as a legal device to safeguard a woman when the inevitable indifference and coldness of her mate set in, making him no longer a lover, but a household companion of habit and circumstance, lawfully bound to pay for the education of children and the necessary expenses of living. In his inmost consciousness he knew very well that Innocent was not of the ordinary feminine mould — she had visions of the high and unattainable, and her ideals of life were of that pure and transcendental quality which belongs to finer elements unseen. The carnal mind can never comprehend spirituality, — nevertheless, Jocelyn was a man cultured and clever enough to feel that though he himself could not enter, and did not even care to enter the uplifted spheres of thought, this strange child with a gift of the gods in her brain, already dwelt in them, serenely unconscious of any lower plane. And she loved him! — and he would, on that ground of love, teach her many things she had never known — he would widen her outlook, — warm her senses — increase her perceptions — train her like a wild rose on the iron trellis of his experience — while thus to instruct an unworldly soul in worldliness would be for him an interesting and pleasurable pastime.
“And I can make her happy” — was his additional thought— “in the only way a woman is ever happy — for a little while!”
All this ran through his mind as he held her hand a moment longer, till the convincing music of the band and the brilliant lights of the house warned them to break away from each other.
“We had better go straight to the ball-room and dance in,” he said. “No one will have missed us long. We’ve only been absent about a quarter of an hour.”
“So much in such a little time!” she said, softly.
He smiled, answering the adoring look of her eyes with his own amorous glance, and in another few seconds they were part of the brilliant whirl of dancers now crowding the ball-room and swinging round in a blaze of colour and beauty to the somewhat hackneyed strains of the “Fruhlings Reigen.” And as they floated and flew, the delight of their attractiveness to each other drew them closer together till the sense of separateness seemed lost and whelmed in a magnetic force of mutual comprehension.
When this waltz was finished she was claimed by many more partners, and danced till she was weary, — then, between two “extras,” she went in search of Miss Leigh, whom she found sitting patiently in one of the great drawing-rooms, looking somewhat pale and tired.
“Oh, my godmother!” she exclaimed, running up to her. “I had forgotten how late it is getting!”
Miss Lavinia smiled cheerfully.
“Never mind, child!” she said. “You are young and ought to enjoy yourself. I am old, and hardly fit for these late assemblies — and how very late they are too! When I was a girl we never stayed beyond midnight—”
“And is it midnight now?” asked Innocent, amazed, turning to her partner, a young scion of the aristocracy, who looked as if he had not been to bed for a week.
He smiled simperingly, and glanced at his watch.
“It’s nearly two o’clock,” he said. “In fact it’s tomorrow morning!”
Just then Jocelyn came up.
“Are you going?” he inquired. “Well, perhaps it’s time! May I see you to your carriage?”
Miss Leigh gratefully accepted this suggestion — and Innocent, smiling her “good-night” to partners whom she had disappointed, walked with her through the long vista of rooms, Jocelyn leading the way. They soon ran the gauntlet of the ladies’ cloak-room and the waiting mob of footmen and chauffeurs that lined the long passage leading to the entrance-hall, and Jocelyn, going out into the street succeeded in finding their modest little hired motor-brougham and assisting them into it.
“Good-night, Miss Leigh!” he said, leaning on the door of the vehicle and smiling at them through the open window— “Good-night, Miss Armitage! I hope you are not very tired?”
“I am not tired at all!” she answered, with a thrill of joy in her voice like the note of a sweet bird. “I have been so very happy!”
He smiled. His face was pale and looked unusually handsome, — she stretched one little hand out to him.
“Good-night, ‘Sieur Amadis!’”
He bent down and kissed it.
“Good-night!”
The motor began to move — another moment, and they were off. Innocent sank back in the brougham with a sigh.
“You are tired, child! — you must be!” said Miss Leigh.
“No, godmother mine! That sigh was one of pleasure. It has been a most wonderful evening! — wonderful!”
“It was certainly very brilliant,” agreed Miss Leigh. “And I’m glad you were made so much of, my dear! That was as it ought to be. Lord Blythe told me he had seldom met so charming a girl!”
Innocent sat up suddenly. “Lord Blythe? Do you know him?”
“No, I cannot say I really know him,” replied Miss Leigh. “I’ve met him several times — and his wife too — there was some scandal about her years and years ago before she was married — nobody ever knew exactly what it was, and her people hushed it up. I daresay it wasn’t very much. Anyhow Lord Blythe married her — and he’s a very fine man with a great position. I thought I saw you talking to Lady Blythe?”
“Yes” — Innocent spoke almost mechanically— “I had a few minutes
’ conversation with her.”
“She’s very handsome,” went on Miss Leigh. “She used to be quite beautiful. A pity she has no children.”
Innocent was silent. The motor-brougham glided along.
“You and Mr. Jocelyn seem to get on very well together,” observed the old lady, presently. “He is a very ‘taking’ man — but I wonder if he is quite sincere?”
Innocent’s colour rose, — fortunately the interior of the brougham was too dark for her face to be seen.
“Why should he not be?” she asked— “Surely with his great art, he would be more sincere than most men?”
“Well, I hope so!” and Miss Leigh’s voice was a little tremulous; “But artists are very impressionable, and live so much in a world of their own that I sometimes doubt whether they have much understanding or sympathy with the world of other people! Even Pierce Armitage — who was very dear to me — ran away with impressions like a child with toys. He would adore a person one day — and hate him, or her, the next!” — and she laughed softly and compassionately— “He would indeed, poor fellow! He was rather like Shelley in his likes and dislikes — you’ve read all about your Shelley of course?”
“Indeed I have!” the girl answered,— “A glorious poet! — but he must have been difficult to live with!”
“Difficult, if not impossible!” — and the gentle old lady took her hand and held it in a kind, motherly clasp— “You are a genius yourself — but you are a human little creature, not above the sweet and simple ways of life, — some of the poets and artists were and are in-human! Now Mr. Jocelyn—”
“HE is human!” said Innocent, quickly— “I’m sure of that!”
“You are sure? Well, dear, you like him very much and you have made a friend of him, — which is quite natural considering the long association you have had with his name — such a curious and romantic coincidence! — but I hope he won’t disappoint you.”
Innocent laughed, happily.
“Don’t be afraid, you dear little godmother!” she said— “I don’t expect anything of him, so no disappointment is possible! Here we are!”
The brougham stopped and they alighted. Opening the house-door with a latch-key they entered, and pausing one moment in the drawing-room, where the lights had been left burning for their return, Miss Leigh took Innocent tenderly by the arm and pointed to the portrait on the harpsichord.
“There was a true genius!” she said— “He might have been the greatest artist in England to-day if he had not let his impressions and prejudices overmaster his judgment. You know — for I have told you my story — that he loved me, or thought he did — and I loved him and knew I did! There was the difference between us! He tired of me — all artists tire of the one face — they want dozens! — and he lost his head over some woman whose name I never knew. The result must have been fatal to his career, for it stopped short just when he was succeeding; — for me, it only left me resolved to be true to his memory till the end. But, my child, it’s a hard lot to be alone all one’s days, with only the remembrance of a past love to keep one’s heart from growing cold!”
There was a little sob in her voice, — Innocent, touched to the quick, kissed her tenderly.
“Why do you talk like this so sadly to-night?” she asked— “Has something reminded you of — of HIM?” And she glanced half nervously towards the portrait.
“Yes,” answered the old lady, simply— “Something has reminded me — very much — of him! Good-night, dear little child! Keep your beautiful dreams and ideals as long as you can! Sleep well!”
She turned off the lights, and they went upstairs together to their several rooms.
Once alone, Innocent flung off her dainty ball attire, — released her bright hair from the pins that held it bound in rippling waves about her shapely head, and slipping on a loose white wrapper sat down to think. She had to realise the unpleasing fact that against her own wish and will she had become involved in mysteries, — secrets which she dared not, for the sake of others, betray. Her parentage could not be divulged, because her father was Pierce Armitage, the worshipped memory of Miss Leigh’s heart, — while her mother, Lady Blythe, occupied a high social position which must not be assailed. And now — now, Amadis de Jocelyn was her lover! — yet no one must know, because he did not wish it. For some cause or other which she could not determine, he insisted on secrecy. So she was meshed in nets of others’ weaving, and could not take a step to disentangle herself and stand clear. Of her own accord she would have been frank and open as the daylight, — but from the first, a forward fate appeared to have taken delight in surrounding her with deceptions enforced by the sins of others. Her face burned as she thought of Jocelyn’s passionate kisses — she must hide all that joy! — it had already become almost a guilty secret. He was the first man that had ever kissed her since her “Dad” died, — the first that had ever kissed her as a lover. Her mind flew suddenly and capriciously back to Briar Farm — to Robin Clifford who had longed to kiss her, and yet had refused to do so unless she could have loved him. She had never loved him — no! — and yet the thought of him just now gave her a thrill of remorseful tenderness. She knew in herself at last what love could mean, — and with that knowledge she realised what Robin must have suffered.
“To love without return — without hope!” she mused— “Oh, it would be torture! — to me, death! Poor Robin!”
Poor Robin, indeed! He would not have dared to caress her with the wild and tender audacity of Amadis de Jocelyn!
“My love!” she whispered to the silence.— “My love!” she repeated, as she knelt down to say her prayers, sending the adored and idealised name up on vibrations of light to the throne of the Most High, — and “My love!” were the last words she murmured as she nestled into her little bed, her fair head on its white pillow looking like the head of one of Botticelli’s angels. Her own success, — her celebrity as a genius in literature, — her dreams of fame — these now were all as naught! — less than the clouds of a night or the mists of a morning — there was nothing for her in earth or heaven save “My love!”
CHAPTER V
Lord Blythe was sitting alone in his library. He was accustomed to sit alone, and rather liked it. It was the evening after that of the Duchess of Deanshire’s reception; his wife had gone to another similar “crush,” but had graciously excused his attendance, for which he was honestly grateful. He was old enough, at sixty-eight, to appreciate the luxury of peace and quietness, — he had put on an old lounge coat and an easy pair of slippers, and was thoroughly enjoying himself in a comfortable arm-chair with a book and a cigar. The book was by “Ena Armitage” — the cigar, one of a choice brand known chiefly to fastidious connoisseurs of tobacco. The book, however, was a powerful rival to the charm of the fragrant Havana — for every now and again he allowed the cigar to die out and had to re-light it, owing to his fascinated absorption in the volume he held. He was an exceedingly clever man — deeply versed in literature and languages, and in his younger days had been a great student, — he had read nearly every book of note, and was as familiar with the greatest authors as with his greatest friends, so that he was well fitted to judge without prejudice the merits of any new aspirant to literary fame. But he was wholly unprepared for the power and the daring genius which stamped itself on every page of the new writer’s work, — he almost forgot, while reading, whether it was man or woman who had given such a production to the world, so impressed was he by the masterly treatment of a simple subject made beautiful by a scholarly and incisive style. It was literature of the highest kind, — and realising this with every sentence he perused, it was with a shock of surprise that he remembered the personality of the author — the unobtrusive girl who had been the “show animal” at Her Grace of Deanshire’s reception and dance.
“Positively, I can scarcely believe it!” he exclaimed sotto-voce— “That child I met last night actually wrote this amazing piece of work! It’s almost incredible! A nice child
too, — simple and perfectly natural, — nothing of the blue-stocking about her. Well, well! What a career she’ll make! — what a name! — that is, if she takes care of herself and doesn’t fall in love, which she’s sure to do! That’s the worst of women — God occasionally gives them brains, but they’ve scarcely begun to use them when heart and sentiment step in and overthrow all reason. Now, we men—”
He paused, — thinking. There had been a time in his life — long ago, when he was very young — when heart and sentiment had very nearly overthrown reason in his own case — and sometimes he was inclined to regret that such overthrow had been averted.
“For the moment it is perhaps worth everything else!” he mused— “But — for the moment only! The ecstasy does not last.”
His cigar had gone out again, and he re-lit it. The clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve with a silvery clang, and almost at the same instant he heard the rustle of a silk gown and a light footstep, — the door opened, and his wife appeared.
“Are you busy?” she enquired— “May I come in?”
He rose, with the stately old-fashioned courtesy habitual to him.
“By all means come in!” he said— “You have returned early?”
“Yes.” She loosened her rich evening cloak, lined with ermine, and let it fall on the back of the chair in which she seated herself— “It was a boresome affair, — there were recitations and music which I hate — so I came away. You are reading?”
“Not now” — and he closed the volume on the table beside him— “But I
HAVE been reading — that amazing book by the young girl we met at the
Deanshires’ last night — Ena Armitage. It’s really a fine piece of work.”
She was silent.
“You didn’t take to her, I’m afraid?” he went on— “Yet she seemed a charming, modest little person. Perhaps she was not quite what you expected?”
Lady Blythe gave a sudden harsh laugh.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 821