Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Profoundly touched by the simple straightforward eloquence of her appeal, Lord Blythe went up to her where she stood with one arm round Miss Leigh.

  “My dear child,” he said, earnestly— “believe me, I shall never speak of your parentage or give the slightest hint to anyone of the true facts of your history — still less would I allow you to be lightly esteemed for what is no fault of your own. You have made a brilliant name and fame for yourself — you have the right to that name and fame. I came here to-day for two reasons — one to tell you that I was fully acquainted with all you had endured and suffered — the other to ask if you will let me be your guardian — your other father — and give me some right to shelter you from the rough ways of the world. I may perhaps in this way make some amends to you for the loss of mother-love and father-love — I would do my best—”

  He stopped — a little troubled by unusual emotion. Innocent, drawing her embracing arm away from Miss Leigh, looked at him with wondering, grateful eyes.

  “How good you are!” she said, softly— “You would take care of me — you with your proud name and place! — and I — the poor, unfortunately born child of your dead friend! Ah, you kind, gentle heart! — I thank you! — but no! — I must not accept such a sacrifice on your part—”

  “It would be no sacrifice” — he interrupted her, eagerly— “No, child! — it would be pure selfishness! — for I’m getting old and am lonely — and — and I want someone to look after me!” He laughed a little awkwardly. “Why not come to me and be my daughter?”

  She smiled — caught his hand and kissed it.

  “I will be a daughter to you in affection and respect,” she said— “But I will not take any benefits from you — no, none! Oh, I know well all you could and would do for me! — you would place me in the highest ranks of that society where you are a leader, and you would surround me with so many advantages and powerful friends that I should forget my duty, which is to work for myself, and owe nothing to any man! Dear, kind Lord Blythe! — do not think me ungrateful! But I have made my own little place in the world, and I must keep it — independently! Am I not right, my godmother?”

  Miss Leigh looked at her anxiously, and sighed.

  “My dear, you must think well about it,” she said— “Lord Blythe would care for you as his own child, I am sure — and his home would be a safe and splendid one for you — but there! — do not ask ME!” and the old lady wiped away one or two trickling tears from her eyes— “I am selfish! — and now I know you are Pierce’s daughter I want to keep you for myself! — to have you near me! — to look at you and love you!—”

  Her voice broke — her gaze instinctively wandered to the portrait of the man whose memory she had cherished so long and so fondly.

  “What did you think — what must you have thought the first day you came here when I asked you if you were any relation to Pierce Armitage, and told you that was his portrait!” she said, wistfully.

  “I thought that God had guided me to you,” the girl answered, in soft, grave accents— “And that my father’s spirit had not forsaken me!”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then she spoke more lightly —

  “Dear Lord Blythe,” she said— “Now that you know so much may I tell you my own story? It will not take long! Come and sit here — yes!” — and she placed a comfortable arm-chair for him, while she drew Miss Leigh gently down on the sofa and sat next to her— “It is nothing of a story! — my little life is not at all like the lives lived by all the girls of my age that I have ever met or seen — it’s all in the past, as it were, — the old, very old past! — as far back as the days of Elizabeth!”

  She laughed, but there were tears in her eyes — she brushed them away and holding Miss Leigh’s hand in her own, she told with simple truth and directness the narrative of her childhood’s days — her life on Briar Farm — how she had been trained by Priscilla to bake, and brew, and wash and sew, — and how she had found her chief joy and relaxation from household duties in the reading of the old books she had found stowed away in the dower-chests belonging to the “Sieur Amadis de Jocelin.”

  As she pronounced the name with an unconsciously tender accentuation

  Lord Blythe interrupted her.

  “Why, that’s a curious thing! I know a rather clever painter named

  Amadis de Jocelyn — and surely you were dancing with him on the evening

  I first met you?”

  A wave of rosy colour swept over her cheeks.

  “Yes! — that is what I was just going to tell you!” she said. “He is another Amadis de Jocelyn! — and he is actually connected with a branch of the same family! HIS ancestor was the brother of that very Amadis who lies buried at Briar Farm! Is it not strange that I should have met him! — and he is going to paint my portrait!”

  “Is he indeed!” and Lord Blythe did not look impressed— “I thought he was a landscape man.”

  “So he is,” she explained, with eagerness— “But he can do portraits — and he wishes to make a picture of me, because I have been a student of the books written by one of his ancient line. Those books taught me all I know of literature. You see, it is curious, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” he agreed, rather hesitatingly— “But I’ve never quite liked Jocelyn — he’s clever — yet he has always struck me as being intensely selfish, — a callous sort of man — many artists are.”

  Her eyes drooped, and her breath came and went quickly.

  “I suppose all clever men get self-absorbed sometimes!” she said, with a quaint little air of wisdom— “But I don’t think he is really callous—” She broke off, and laughed brightly— “Anyhow we needn’t discuss him — need we? I just wanted to tell you what an odd experience it has been for me to meet and to know someone descended from the family of the old French knight whose spirit was my instructor in beautiful things! The little books of his own poems were full of loveliness — and I used to read them over and over again. They were all about love and faith and honour—”

  “Very old-fashioned subjects!” said Lord Blythe, with a slight smile— “And not very much in favour nowadays!”

  Miss Leigh looked at him questioningly.

  “You think not?” she said.

  He gave a quick sigh.

  “It is difficult to know what to think,” he answered— “But I have lived a long life — long enough to have seen the dispersal of many illusions! I fear selfishness is the keynote of the greater part of humanity. Those who do the kindest deeds are invariably the worst rewarded — and love in its highest form is so little known that it may be almost termed non-existent. You” — and he looked at Innocent— “you write in a very powerful and convincing way about things of which you can have had no real experience — and therein lies your charm! You restore the lost youth of manhood by idealisation, and you compel your readers to ‘idealise’ with you — but ‘to idealise’ is rather a dangerous verb! — and its conjugation generally means trouble and disaster. Ideals — unless they are of the spiritual kind unattainable on this planet — are apt to be very disappointing.”

  Innocent smiled.

  “But love is an ideal which cannot disappoint, because it is everlasting!” she said, almost joyously. “The story of the old French knight is, in its way, a proof of that. He loved his ideal all his life, even though he could not win her.”

  “Very wonderful if true!” he answered— “But I cannot quite believe it! I am too familiar with the ways of my own sex! Anyhow, dear child, I should advise you not to make too many ideals apart from the characters in the books you write. Fortunately your special talent brings you an occupation which will save you from that kind of thing. You have ambition as an incentive, and fame for a goal.”

  She was silent for a moment. In relating the story of her life at Briar Farm she had not spoken of Robin Clifford, — some instinct told her that the sympathies of her hearers might be enlisted in his favour, and she did not want this.

 
“Well, now you know what my ‘literary education’ has been,” she went on— “Since I came to London I have tried to improve myself as much as I can — and I have read a great many modern books — but to me they seem to lack the real feeling of the old-time literature. For instance, if you read the account of the battle of the Armada by a modern historian it sounds tame and cold, — but if you read the same account in Camden’s ‘Elizabeth’ — the whole scene rises before you, — you can almost see every ship riding the waves!”

  Her cheeks glowed and her eyes shone, — Lord Blythe smiled approvingly.

  “I see you are an enthusiast!” he said— “And you could not have better teachers than the Elizabethans. They lived in a great age and they were great men. Our times, though crowded with the splendid discoveries of science, seem small and poor compared to theirs. If you ever come to me, I can give you the run of a library where you will find many friends.”

  She thanked him by a look, and he went on —

  “You will come and see me often, will you not? — you and Miss Leigh — by-and-by, when the conventional time of mourning for my poor wife is over. Make my house your second home, both of you! — and when I return from Italy—”

  “Oh!” the girl exclaimed, impulsively— “Are you going to Italy?”

  “For a few weeks — yes! — will you come with me — you and your godmother?”

  His old heart beat, — a sudden joy lighted his eyes. It would have been like the dawn of a new day to him had she consented, but she shook her fair little head decisively.

  “I must not!” she said-”-I am bound to finish some work that I have promised. But some day — ah, yes! — some day I should love to see Italy!”

  The light went slowly from his face.

  “Some day! — well! — I hope I may live to be with you on that ‘some day.’

  I ought not to leave London just now — but the house is very lonely — and

  I think I am best away for a time—”

  “Much best!” said Miss Leigh, sympathetically— “And if there is anything we can do—”

  “Yes — there is one thing that will please me very much,” said Lord Blythe, drawing from his pocket a small velvet case— “I want my friend Pierce’s daughter to wear this — it was my first gift to her mother.” Here he opened the case and showed an exquisite pendant, in the shape of a dove, finely wrought in superb brilliants, and supported on a thin gold chain. “I gave it as an emblem of innocence” — a quick sigh escaped him— “I little knew! — but you, dear girl, are the one to wear it now! Let me fasten it round your neck.”

  She stooped forward, and he took a lingering pleasure in putting the chain on and watching the diamonds flash against her fair skin. She was too much moved to express any worded thanks — it was not the value or the beauty of the gift that touched her, but its association and the way it was given. And then, after a little more desultory conversation, he rose to go.

  “Remember!” he said, taking her tenderly by both hands— “Whenever you want a home and a father, both are ready and waiting for you!” And he kissed her lightly on the forehead. “You are famous and independent, but the world is not always kind to a clever woman even when she is visibly known to be earning her own living. There are always spiteful tongues wagging in the secret corners and byways, ready to assert that her work is not her own and that some man is in the background, helping to keep her!”

  He then shook hands warmly with Miss Leigh.

  “If she ever comes to me” — he went on— “you are free to come with her — and be assured of my utmost friendship and respect. I shall feel I am in some way doing what I know my old friend Pierce Armitage would, in his best moments, approve, if I can be of the least service to you. You will not forget?”

  Miss Leigh was too overcome by the quiet sweetness and dignity of his manner to murmur more than a few scarcely audible words of gratitude in reply — and when at last he took his leave, she relieved her heart by throwing her arms round Innocent and having what she called “a good cry.”

  “And you Pierce’s child!” she half laughed, half sobbed— “Oh, how could he leave you at that farm! — poor little thing! — and yet it might have been much worse—”

  “Indeed I should think so!” and Innocent soothed her fondly with the tenderest caresses— “Very much worse! Why, if I had not been left at Briar Farm, I should never have known Dad! — and he was one of the best of men — and I should never have learned how to think, and write my thoughts, from the teaching of the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin!”

  There was a little thrill of triumph in her voice — and Miss Leigh, wiping away her tears, looked at her timidly and curiously.

  “How you dwell on the memory of that French knight!” she said. “When are you going to have your portrait painted by the modern Amadis?”

  Innocent smiled.

  “Very soon!” she answered— “We are to begin our sittings next week. I am to wear a white frock — and I told him about my dove Cupid, and how it used to fly from the gables of the house to my hand — and he is going to paint the bird as well as me!”

  She laughed with the joy of a child.

  “Fancy! Cupid will be there!”

  “Cupid?” echoed Miss Leigh, wonderingly.

  “Yes — Cupid! — usually known as the little god of love, — but only a dove this time! — so much more harmless than the god!”

  Miss Leigh touched the diamond pendant at the girl’s neck.

  “You have a dove there now,” she said— “All in jewels! And in your heart, dear child, I pray there is a spiritual dove of holy purity to guard you from all evil and keep your sweet soul safe and clean!”

  A startled look came into the girl’s soft grey-blue eyes, — a deep flush of rose flew over her cheeks and brow.

  “A blessing or a warning, godmother mine?” she said.

  Miss Leigh drew her close in her arms and kissed her.

  “Both!” she answered, simply.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  Then Innocent, her face still warm with colour, walked close up to the harpsichord where her father’s picture stood.

  “Let us talk of HIM!” she said— “Now that you know I am his daughter, tell me all you remember of him! — how he spoke, how he looked! — what sort of pictures he painted — and what he used to say to you! He loved you once, and I love you now! — so you must tell me everything!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Fame, or notoriety, whichever that special noise may be called when the world like a hound “gives tongue” and announces that the quarry in some form of genius is at bay, is apt to increase its clamour in proportion to the aloofness of the pursued animal, — and Innocent, who saw nothing remarkable in remaining somewhat secluded and apart from the ordinary routine of social life so feverishly followed by more than half her sex, was very soon classified as “proud”— “eccentric”— “difficult” and “vain,” by idle and ignorant persons who knew nothing about her, and only judged her by their own limited conceptions of what a successful author might or could possibly be like. Some of these, more foolish than the rest, expressed themselves as afraid or unwilling to meet her— “lest she should put them into her books” — this being a common form of conceit with many individuals too utterly dull and uninteresting to “make copy” for so much as the humblest paragraphist. It was quite true that she showed herself sadly deficient in the appreciation of society functions and society people, — to her they seemed stupid and boresome, involving much waste of precious time, — but notwithstanding this, she was invited everywhere, and the accumulation of “R.S.V.P.” cards on her table and desk made such a formidable heap that it was quite a business to clear them, as she did once a week, with the assistance of the useful waste-paper basket. As a writer her popularity was unquestionable, and so great and insistent was the public demand for anything from her pen that she could command her own terms from any publishing quarter. Her good fortune made very little
effect upon her, — sometimes it seemed as if she hardly realised or cared to realise it. She had odd, almost child-like ways of spending some of her money in dainty “surprise” gifts to her friends — that is to say, such friends as had shown her kindness, — beautiful flowers and fruit for invalids — choice wines for those who needed yet could not afford them, — a new drawing-room carpet for Miss Leigh, which was, in the old lady’s opinion, a most important and amazing affair! — costly furs, also for Miss Leigh, — and devices and adornments of all sorts for the pleasure, beauty or comfort of the house — but on herself personally she spent nothing save what was necessary for such dress and appearance as best accorded with her now acknowledged position. Dearly as she would have loved to shower gifts and benefits on the inhabitants of never-forgotten Briar Farm, she knew that if she did anything of the kind poor lonely old Priscilla Friday and patiently enduring Robin Clifford were more likely to be hurt than gratified. For a silence had fallen between that past life, which had been like a wild rose blossoming in a country lane, and the present one, which resembled a wonderful orchid flower, flaming in heat under glass, — and though she wrote to Robin now and again, and he replied, his letters were restrained and formal — almost cold. He knew too well how far she was removed from him by more than distance, and bravely contented himself with merely giving her such news of the farm and her former home surroundings as might awaken her momentary interest without recalling too many old memories to her mind.

  She seemed, and to a very great extent she was, unconscious of the interest and curiosity both her work and her personality excited — the more so now as the glamour and delight of her creative imagination had been obscured by what she considered a far greater and more lasting glory — that of love! — the golden mirage of a fancied sun, which for a time had quenched the steadier shining of eternal stars. Since that ever memorable night when he had suddenly stormed the fortress of her soul, and by the mastery of a lover’s kiss had taken full possession, Amadis de Jocelyn had pursued his “amour” with admirable tact, cleverness and secrecy. He found a new and stimulating charm in making love to a tender-hearted, credulous little creature who seemed truly “of such stuff as dreams are made of” — and to a man of his particular type and temperament there was an irresistible provocation to his vanity in the possibility of being able to lure her gradually and insidiously down from the high ground of intellectual ambition and power to the low level of that pitiful sex-submission which is responsible for so much more misery than happiness in this world. Little by little, under his apparently brusque and playful, but really studied training, she began to think less and less of her work, — the books she had loved to read and refer to, insensibly lost their charm, — she went reluctantly to her desk, and as reluctantly took up her pen, — what she had written already, appeared to her utterly worthless, — and what she attempted to write now was to her mind poor and unsatisfying. She was not moved by the knowledge, constantly pressed upon her, that she was steadily rising, despite herself, to the zenith of her career in such an incredibly swift and brilliant way as to be the envy of all her contemporaries, — she was hardly as grateful for her honours as weary of them and a little contemptuous. What did it all matter to her when half of her once busy working mornings were now often passed in the studio of Amadis de Jocelyn! He was painting a full-length portrait of her — a mere excuse to give her facilities for visiting him, and ensure his own privacy and convenience in receiving her — and every day she went to him, sometimes late in the afternoons as well as the mornings, slipping in and out familiarly and quite unnoticed, for he had given her a key to the private door of his studio, which was reached through a small, deeply shaded garden, abutting on an old-fashioned street near Holland Park. She could enter at any time, and thought it was the customary privilege accorded by an artist to his sitter, while it saved the time and trouble of the rheumatic “odd man” or servant whose failing limbs were slow to respond to a summons at the orthodox front entrance. She would come in, dressed in her simple navy blue serge walking costume, and then in a little room just off the studio would change and put on the white dress which her lover had chosen as the most suitable for his purpose, and which he called the “portrait gown.” It was simple, and severely Greek, made of the softest and filmiest material which fell gracefully away in enchanting folds from her childishly rounded neck and arms, — it gave her the appearance of a Psyche or an Ariadne, — and at the first sitting, when he had posed her in several attitudes before attempting to draw a line, she had so much sweet attractiveness about her that he was hardly to be blamed for throwing aside all work and devoting himself to such ardent delight in woman’s fairness as may sometimes fall to the lot of man. While moving from one position to another as he suggested or commanded, she had playfully broken off one flower from a large plant of “marguerite” daisies growing in a quaint Japanese pot, close at hand, and had begun pulling off the petals according to the old fanciful charm— “Il m’aime! — un peu! — beaucoup! — passionement! — pas du tout!” He stopped her at the word “passionement,” and caught her in his arms.