“Suicide?” whispered one.
“Oh no! Mere accident! — an overdose of veronal — some carelessness — quite a common occurrence. Nothing to be done!”
No! — nothing to be done! Her slumber had deepened into that strange stillness which we call death, — and her husband, a statuesque and rigid figure, gazed on her quiet body with tearless eyes.
“Good-night!” he whispered to the heavy silence— “Good-night! Farewell!”
CHAPTER VI
One of the advantages or disadvantages of the way in which we live in these modern days is that we are ceasing to feel. That is to say we do not permit ourselves to be affected by either death or misfortune, provided these natural calamities leave our own persons unscathed. We are beginning not to understand emotion except as a phase of bad manners, and we cultivate an apathetic, soulless indifference to events of great moment whether triumphant or tragic, whenever they do not involve our own well-being and creature comforts. Whole boatloads of fishermen may go forth to their doom in the teeth of a gale without moving us to pity so long as we have our well-fried sole or grilled cod for breakfast, — and even such appalling disasters as the wicked assassination of hapless monarchs, or the wrecks of palatial ocean-liners with more than a thousand human beings all whelmed at once in the pitiless depths of the sea, leave us cold, save for the uplifting of our eyes and shoulders during an hour or so, — an expression of slight shock, followed by forgetfulness. Air-men, recklessly braving the spaces of the sky, fall headlong, and are smashed to mutilated atoms every month or so, without rousing us to more than a passing comment, and a chorus of “How dreadful!” from simpering women, — and the greatest and best man alive cannot hope for long remembrance by the world at large when he dies. Shakespeare recognised this tendency in callous human nature when he made his Hamlet say —
“O heavens! Die two months ago and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year, but by ‘r lady, he must build churches then, or else shall he suffer not thinking on.”
Wives recover the loss of their husbands with amazing rapidity, — husbands “get over” the demise of their wives with the galloping ease of trained hunters leaping an accustomed fence — families forget their dead as resolutely as some debtors forget their bills, — and to express sorrow, pity, tenderness, affection, or any sort of “sentiment” whatever is to expose one’s self to derision and contempt from the “normal” modernist who cultivates cynicism as a fine art. Many of us elect to live, each one, in a little back-yard garden of selfish interests — walled round carefully, and guarded against possible intrusion by uplifted spikes of conventionalism, — the door is kept jealously closed — and only now and then does some impulsive spirit bolder than the rest, venture to put up a ladder and peep over the wall. Shut in with various favourite forms of hypocrisy and cowardice, each little unit passes its short life in mistrusting its neighbour unit, and death finds none of them wiser, better or nearer the utmost good than when they were first uselessly born.
Among such vain and unprofitable atoms of life Lady Maude Blythe had been one of the vainest and most unprofitable, — though of such “social” importance as to be held in respectful awe by tuft-hunters and parasites, who feed on the rich as the green-fly feeds on the rose. The news of her sudden death briefly chronicled by the fashionable intelligence columns of the press with the usual— “We deeply regret” — created no very sorrowful sensation — a few vapid people idly remarked to one another— “Then her great ball won’t come off!” — somewhat as if she had retired into the grave to avoid the trouble and expense of the function. Cards inscribed— “Sympathy and kind enquiries” — were left for Lord Blythe in the care of his dignified butler, who received them with the impassiveness of a Buddhist idol and deposited them all on the orthodox salver in the hall — and a few messages of “Deeply shocked and grieved. Condolences” — by wires, not exceeding sixpence each, were despatched to the lonely widower, — but beyond these purely formal observances, the handsome brilliant society woman dropped out of thought and remembrance as swiftly as a dead leaf drops from a tree. She had never been loved, save by her two deluded dupes — Pierce Armitage and her husband, — no one in the whole wide range of her social acquaintance would have ever thought of feeling the slightest affection for her. The first announcement of her death appeared in an evening paper, stating the cause to be an accidental overdose of veronal taken to procure sleep, and Miss Leigh, seeing the paragraph by merest chance, gave a shocked exclamation —
“Innocent! My dear! — how dreadful! That poor Lady Blythe we saw the other night is dead!”
The girl was standing by the tea-table just pouring out a cup of tea for Miss Leigh — she started so nervously that the cup almost fell from her hand.
“Dead!” she repeated, in a low, stifled voice. “Lady Blythe? Dead?”
“Yes! — it is awful! That horrid veronal! Such a dangerous drug! It appears she was accustomed to take it for sleep — and unfortunately she took an over-dose. How terrible for Lord Blythe!”
Innocent sat down, trembling. Her gaze involuntarily wandered to the portrait of Pierce Armitage — the lover of the dead woman, and her father! The handsome face with its dreamy yet proud eyes appeared conscious of her intense regard — she looked and looked, and longed to speak — to tell Miss Leigh all — but something held her silent. She had her own secret now — and it restrained her from disclosing the secrets of others. Nor could she realise that it was her mother — actually her own mother — who had been taken so suddenly and tragically from the world. The news barely affected her — nor was this surprising, seeing that she had never entirely grasped the fact of her mother’s personality or existence at all. She had felt no emotion concerning her, save of repulsion and dislike. Her unexpected figure had appeared on the scene like a strange vision, and now had vanished from it as strangely. Innocent was in very truth “motherless” — but so she had always been — for a mother who deserts her child is worse than a mother dead. Yet it was some few minutes before she could control herself sufficiently to speak or look calmly — and her eyes were downcast as Miss Leigh came up to the tea-table, newspaper in hand, to discuss the tragic incident.
“She was a very brilliant woman in society,” said the gentle old lady, then— “You did not know her, of course, and you could not judge of her by seeing her just one evening. But I remember the time when she was much talked of as ‘the beautiful Maude Osborne’ — she was a very lively, wilful girl, and she had been rather neglected by her parents, who left her in England in charge of some friends while they were in India. I think she ran rather wild at that time. There was some talk of her having gone off secretly somewhere with a lover — but I never believed the story. It was a silly scandal — and of course it stopped directly she married Lord Blythe. He gave her a splendid position, — and he was devoted to her — poor man!”
“Yes?” murmured Innocent, mechanically. She did not know what to say.
“If she had been blessed with children — or even one child,” went on Miss Leigh— “I think it would have been better for her. I am sure she would have been happier! He would, I feel certain!”
“No doubt!” the girl answered in the same quiet tone.
“My dear, you look very pale!” said Miss Leigh, with some anxiety— “Have you been working too hard?”
She smiled.
“That would be impossible!” she answered. “I could not work too hard — it is such happiness to work — one forgets! — yes — one forgets all that one does not wish to remember!”
The anxious expression still remained on Miss Lavinia’s face, — but, true to the instincts of an old-fashioned gentlewoman, she did not press enquiries where she saw they might be embarrassing or unwelcome. And though she now loved Innocent as much as if she had been her own child, she never failed to remember that after all, the girl had earned her own almost wealthy independence, and was free to do as she
liked without anybody’s control or interference, and that though she was so young she was bound to be in all respects untrammelled in her life and actions. She went where she pleased — she had her own little hired motor-brougham — she also had many friends who invited her out without including Miss Leigh in the invitations, and she was still the “paying guest” at the little Kensington house, — a guest who was never tired of doing kindly and helpful deeds for the benefit of the sweet old woman who was her hostess. Once or twice Miss Leigh had made a faint half-hearted protest against her constant and lavish generosity.
“My dear,” she had said— “With all the money you earn now you could live in a much larger house — you could indeed have a house of your own, with many more luxuries — why do you stay here, showering advantages on me, who am nothing but a prosy old body? — you could do much better!”
“Could I really?” And Innocent had laughed and kissed her. “Well! — I don’t want to do any better — I’m quite happy as I am. One thing is — (and you seem to forget it!) — that I’m very fond of you! — and when I’m very fond of a person it’s difficult to shake me off!”
So she stayed on — and lived her life with a nun-like simplicity and economy — spending her money on others rather than herself, and helping those in need, — and never even in her dress, which was always exquisite, running into vagaries of extravagance and follies of fashion. She had discovered a little French dressmaker, whose husband had deserted her, leaving her with two small children to feed and educate, and to this humble, un-famous plier of the needle she entrusted her wardrobe with entirely successful results. Worth, Paquin, Doucet and other loudly advertised personages were all quoted as “creators” of her gowns, whereat she was amused.
“A little personal taste and thought go so much further in dress than money,” she was wont to say to some of her rather envious women friends. “I would rather copy the clothes in an old picture than the clothes in a fashion book.”
Odd fancies about her dead mother came to her when she was alone in her own room — particularly at night when she said her prayers. Some mysterious force seemed compelling her to offer up a petition for the peace of her mother’s soul, — she knew from the old books written by the “Sieur Amadis” that to do this was a custom of his creed. She missed it out of the Church of England Prayer-book, though she dutifully followed the tenets of the faith in which Miss Leigh had had her baptised and confirmed — but in her heart of hearts she thought it good and right to pray for the peace of departed souls —
“For who can tell” — she would say to herself— “what strange confusion and sorrow they may be suffering! — away from all that they once knew and cared for! Even if prayers cannot help them it is kind to pray!”
And for her mother’s soul she felt a dim and far-off sense of pity — almost a fear, lest that unsatisfied spirit might be lost and wandering in a chaos of dark experience without any clue to guide or any light to shine upon its dreadful solitude. So may the dead come nearer to the living than when they also lived!
Some three or four weeks after Lady Blythe’s sudden exit from a world too callous to care whether she stayed in it or went from it, Lord Blythe called at Miss Leigh’s house and asked to see her. He was admitted at once, and the pretty old lady came down in a great flutter to the drawing-room to receive him. She found him standing in front of the harpsichord, looking at the portrait upon it. He turned quickly round as she entered and spoke with some abruptness.
“I must apologise for calling rather late in the afternoon,” he said— “But I could not wait another day. I have something important to tell you—” He paused — then went on— “It’s rather startling to me to find that portrait here! — I knew the man. Surely it is Pierce Armitage, the painter?”
“Yes” — and Miss Leigh’s eyes opened in a little surprise and bewilderment— “He was a great friend of mine — and of yours?” “He was my college chum” — and he walked closer to the picture and looked at it steadfastly— “That must have been taken when he was quite a young man — before—” He paused again, — then said with a forced smile— “Talking of Armitage — is Miss Armitage in?”
“No, she is not” — and the old lady looked regretful— “She has gone out to tea — I’m sorry—”
“It’s just as well” — and Lord Blythe took one or two restless paces up and down the little room— “I would rather talk to you alone first. Yes! — that portrait of Pierce must have been taken in early days — just about the time he ran away with Maude Osborne—”
Miss Leigh gazed at him enquiringly.
“With Maude Osborne?”
“Yes — with Maude Osborne, who afterwards became my wife.”
Miss Leigh trembled and drew back, looking about her in a dazed way as though seeking for some place to hide in. Lord Blythe saw her agitation.
“I’m afraid I’m worrying you!” he said, kindly. “Sit down, please,” — and he placed a chair for her. “We are both elderly folk and shocks are not good for us. There!” — and he took her hand and patted it gently— “As I was saying, that portrait must have been taken about then — did he give it to you?”
“Yes,” she answered, faintly— “He did. We were engaged—”
“Engaged! Good God! You? — to Pierce? — My dear lady, forgive me! — I’m very sorry! — I had no idea—”
But Miss Leigh composed herself very quickly.
“Please do not mind me!” she said— “It all happened so very long ago! Yes — Pierce Armitage and I were engaged — but he suddenly went away — and I was told he had gone with some very beautiful girl he had fallen head over ears in love with — and I never saw him again. But I never reproached him — I — I loved him too well!”
Silently Lord Blythe took the worn little hand and raised it to his lips.
“Pierce was more cruel than I thought was possible to him” — he said, at last, very gently— “But — you have the best of him with you in — his daughter!”
“His daughter!”
She sprang up, white and scared.
He gripped her arm and held it fast to support her.
“Yes,” he said— “His daughter! That is what I have come to tell you! The girl who lives with you — the famous author whose name is just now ringing through the world is his child! — and her mother was my wife!”
There was a little stifled cry — she dropped back in her chair and covered her face with her hands to hide the tears that rushed to her eyes.
“Innocent!” she murmured, sobbingly— “His child! — Innocent!”
He was silent, watching her, his own heart deeply moved. He thought of her life of unbroken fidelity — wasted in its youth — solitary in its age — all for the sake of one man. Presently, mastering her quiet weeping, she looked up.
“Does she — the dear girl! — does she know this?” she asked, in a half whisper.
“She has known it all the time,” he answered— “She knew who her mother was before she came to London — but she kept her own counsel — I think to save the honour of all concerned. And she has made her name famous to escape the reproach of birth which others fastened upon her. A brave child! — it must have been strange to her to find her father’s portrait here — did you ever speak of him to her?”
“Often!” replied Miss Leigh. “She knows all my story!”
He smiled, very kindly
“No wonder she was silent!” he said.
Just then they heard the sound of a latch-key turning in the lock of the hall door — there was a light step in the passage — they looked at one another half in wonder, half in doubt. A moment more and Innocent entered, radiant and smiling. She stopped on the threshold, amazed at the sight of Lord Blythe.
“Why, godmother” — she began. Then, glancing from one to the other, her cheeks grew pale — she hesitated, instinctively guessing at the truth. Lord Blythe advanced and took her gently by both hands.
“Dear child, your secr
et is ours!” he said, quietly. “Miss Leigh knows, and I know that you are the daughter of Pierce Armitage, and that your mother was my late wife. No one can be dearer to us both than you are — for your father’s sake!”
CHAPTER VII
Startled and completely taken aback, she let her hands remain passively in his for a moment, — then quietly withdrew them. A hot colour rushed swiftly into her cheeks and as swiftly receded, leaving her very pale.
“How can you know?” she faltered— “Who has told you?”
“Your mother herself told me on the night she died,” he answered— “She gave me all the truth of herself, — at last — after long years!”
She was silent — standing inert as though she had received a numbing blow. Miss Leigh rose and came tremblingly towards her.
“My dear, my dear!” she exclaimed— “I wish I had known it all before! — I might have done more — I might have tried to be kinder—”
The girl sprang to her side and impulsively embraced her.
“You would have tried in vain!” she said, fondly, “No one on earth could have been kinder than my beloved little godmother! You have been the dearest and best of friends!”
Then she turned towards Lord Blythe.
“It is very good of you to come here and say what you have said” — and she spoke in soft, almost pathetic accents— “But I am sorry that anyone knows my story — it is no use to know it, really! I should have always kept it a secret — for it chiefly concerns me, after all, — and why should my existence cast a shadow on the memory of my father? Perhaps you may have known him—”
“I knew him and loved him!” said Lord Blythe, quickly.
She looked at him with wistful, tear-wet eyes.
“Well then, how hard it must be for you to think that he ever did anything unworthy of himself!” she said— “And for this dear lady it is cruel! — for she loved him too. And what am I that I should cause all this trouble! I am a nameless creature — I took his name because I wanted to kindle a little light of my own round it — I have done that! And then I wanted to guard his memory from any whisper of scandal — will you help me in this? The secret must still be kept — and no one must ever know I am his daughter. For though your wife is dead her name must not be shamed for the long ago sin of her youth — nor must I be branded as what I am — base-born.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 823