CHAPTER III
Some weeks later on, when the London season was at its height, and Fashion, that frilled and furbelowed goddess, sat enthroned in state, controlling the moods of the Elect and Select which she chooses to call "society," Innocent was invited to the house of a well-known Duchess, renowned for a handsome personality, and also for an unassailable position, notwithstanding certain sinister rumours. People said—people are always saying something!—that her morals were easy-going, but everyone agreed that her taste was unimpeachable. She—this great lady whose rank permitted her to entertain the King and Queen—heard of "Ena Armitage" as the brilliant author whose books were the talk of the town, and forthwith made up her mind that she must be seen at her house as the "sensation" of at least one evening. To this end she glided in her noiseless, satin-cushioned motor brougham up to the door of Miss Leigh's modest little dwelling and left the necessary slips of pasteboard bearing her titled name, with similar slips on behalf of her husband the Duke, for Miss Armitage and Miss Leigh. The slips were followed in due course by a more imposing and formal card of invitation to a "Reception and Small Dance. R.S.V.P." On receiving this, good old Miss Lavinia was a little fluttered and excited, and turning it over and over in her hand, looked at Innocent with a kind of nervous anxiety.
"I think we ought to go, my dear," she said—"or rather—I don't know about myself—but YOU ought to go certainly. It's a great house—a great family—and she is a very great lady—a little—well!—a little 'modern' perhaps—"
Innocent lifted her eyebrows with a slight, almost weary smile. A scarcely perceptible change had come over her of late—a change too subtle to be noticed by anyone who was not as keenly observant as Miss Lavinia—but it was sufficient to give the old lady who loved her cause for a suspicion of trouble.
"What is it to be modern?" she asked—"In your sense, I mean? I know what is called 'modern' generally—bad art, bad literature, bad manners and bad taste! But what do YOU call modern?"
Miss Leigh considered—looking at the girl with steadfast, kindly eyes.
"You speak a trifle bitterly—for YOU, dear child!" she said—"These things you name as 'modern' truly are so, but they are ancient as well! The world has altered very little, I think. What we call 'bad' has always existed as badness—it is only presented to us in different forms—"
Innocent laughed—a soft little laugh of tenderness.
"Wise godmother!" she said, playfully—"You talk like a book!"
Miss Lavinia laughed too, and a pretty pink colour came into her wan cheeks.
"Naughty child, you are making fun of me!" she said—"What I meant about the Duchess—"
Innocent stretched out her hand for the card of invitation and looked at it.
"Well!" she said, slowly—"What about the Duchess?"
Miss Leigh hesitated.
"I hardly know how to put it," she answered, at last—"She's a kind-hearted woman—very generous—and most helpful in works of charity. I never knew such energy as she shows in organising charity bails and bazaars!—perfectly wonderful!—but she likes to live her life—"
"Who would not!" murmured the girl, scarcely audibly.
"And she lives it—very much so!—rather to the dregs!" continued the old lady, with emphasis. "She has no real aim beyond the satisfaction of her own vanity and social power—and you, with your beautiful thoughts and ideals, might not like the kind of people she surrounds herself with—people, who only want amusement and 'sensation'—particularly sensation—"
Innocent said nothing for a minute or two—then she looked up, brightly.
"To go or not to go, godmother mine! Which is it to be? The decision rests with you! Yes, or no?"
"I think it must be 'yes'"—and Miss Leigh emphasised the word with a little nod of her head. "It would be unwise to refuse—especially just now when everyone is talking of you and wishing to see you. And you are quite worth seeing!"
The girl gave a slight gesture of indifference and moved away slowly and listlessly, as though fatigued by the mere effort of speech. Miss Leigh noted this with some concern, watching her as she went, and admiring the supple grace of her small figure, the well-shaped little head so proudly poised on the slim throat, and the burnished sheen of her bright hair.
"She grows prettier every day," she thought—"But not happier, I fear!—not happier, poor child!"
Innocent meanwhile, upstairs in her own little study, was reading and re-reading a brief letter which had come for her by the same post that had delivered the Duchess's invitation.
"I hear you are among the guests invited to the Duchess of Deanshire's party," it ran—"I hope you will go—for the purely selfish reason that I want to meet you there. Hers is a great house with plenty of room, and a fine garden—for London. People crowd to her 'crushes', but one can always escape the mob. I have seen so little of you lately, and you are now so famous that I shall think myself lucky if I may touch the hem of your garment. Will you encourage me thus far? Like Hamlet, 'I lack advancement'! When will you take me to Briar Farm? I should like to see the tomb of my very ancestral uncle—could we not arrange a day's outing in the country while the weather is fine? I throw myself on your consideration and clemency for this—and for many other unwritten things!
Yours,
AMADIS DE JOCELYN."
There was nothing in this easily worded scrawl to make an ordinarily normal heart beat faster, yet the heart of this simple child of the gods, gifted with genius and deprived of worldly wisdom as all such divine children are, throbbed uneasily, and her eyes were wet. More than this, she touched the signature,—the long-familiar name—with her soft lips,—and as though afraid of what she had done, hurriedly folded the letter and locked it away.
Then she sat down and thought. Nearly two years had elapsed since she had left Briar Farm, and in that short time she had made the name she had adopted famous. She could not call it her own name; born out of wedlock, she had no right, by the stupid law, to the name of her father. She could, legally, have worn the maiden name of her mother had she known it—but she did not know it. And what she was thinking of now, was this: Should she tell her lately discovered second "Amadis de Jocelyn" the true story of her birth and parentage at this, the outset of their friendship, before—well, before it went any further? She could not consult Miss Leigh on the point, without smirching the reputation of Pierce Armitage, the man whose memory was enshrined in that dear lady's heart as a thing of unsullied honour. She puzzled herself over the question for a long time, and then decided to keep her own counsel.
"After all, why should I tell him?" she asked herself. "It might make trouble—he is so proud of his lineage, and I too am proud of it for him! … why should I let him know that I inherit nothing but my mother's shame!"
Her heart grew heavy as her position was thus forced back upon her by her own thoughts. Up to the present no one had asked who she was, or where she came from—she was understood to be an orphan, left alone in the world, who by her own genius and unaided effort had lifted herself into the front rank among the "shining lights" of the day. This, so far, had been sufficient information for all with whom she had come in contact—but as time went on, would not people ask more about her?—who were her father and mother?—where she was born?—how she had been educated? These inquisitorial demands were surely among the penalties of fame! And, if she told the truth, would she not, despite the renown she had won, be lightly, even scornfully esteemed by conventional society as a "bastard" and interloper, though the manner of her birth was no fault of her own, and she was unjustly punishable for the sins of her parents, such being the wicked law!
The night of the Duchess's reception was one of those close sultry nights of June in London when the atmosphere is well-nigh as suffocating as that of some foetid prison where criminals have been pacing their dreary round all day. Royal Ascot was just over, and space and opportunity were given for several social entertainments to be conveniently checked off before Henley. Outside the Duke's great house there was a constant stream of motor-cars and taxi-cabs; a passing stranger might have imagined all the world and his wife were going to the Duchess's "At Home." It was difficult to effect an entrance, but once inside, the scene was one of veritable enchantment. The lovely hues and odours of flowers, the softened glitter of thousands of electric lamps shaded with rose-colour, the bewildering brilliancy of women's clothes and jewels, the exquisite music pouring like a rippling stream through the magnificent reception-rooms, all combined to create a magical effect of sensuous beauty and luxury; and as Innocent, accompanied by the sweet-faced old-fashioned lady who played the part of chaperone with such gentle dignity, approached her hostess, she was a little dazzled and nervous. Her timidity made her look all the more charming—she had the air of a wondering child called up to receive an unexpected prize at school. She shrank visibly when her name was shouted out in a stentorian voice by the gorgeously liveried major-domo in attendance, quite unaware that it created a thrill throughout the fashionable assemblage, and that all eyes were instantly upon her. The Duchess, diamond-crowned and glorious in gold-embroidered tissue, kept back by a slight gesture the pressing crowd of guests, and extended her hand with marked graciousness and a delightful smile.
"SUCH a pleasure and honour!" she said, sweetly—"So good of you to come! You will give me a few words with you later on? Yes? Everybody will want to speak to you!—but you must let me have a chance too!"
Innocent murmured something gently deprecatory as a palliative to this sort of society "gush" which always troubled her—and moved on. Everybody gazed, whispered and wondered, astonished at the youth and evident unworldliness of the "author of those marvellous books!"—so the commentary ran;—the women criticised her gown, which was one of pale blue silken stuff caught at the waist and shoulders by quaint clasps of dull gold—a gown with nothing remarkable about it save its cut and fit—melting itself, as it were, around her in harmonious folds of fine azure which suggested without emphasising the graceful lines of her form. The men looked, and said nothing much except "A pity she's a writing woman! Mucking about Fleet Street!"—mere senseless talk which they knew to be senseless, inasmuch as "mucking" about Fleet Street is no part of any writer's business save that of the professional journalist. Happily ignorant of comment, the girl made her way quietly and unobtrusively through the splendid throng, till she was presently addressed by a stoutish, pleasant-featured man, with small twinkling eyes and an agreeable surface manner.
"I missed you just now when my wife received you," he said—"May I present myself? I am your host—proud of the privilege!"
Innocent smiled as she bowed and held out her hand; she was amused, and taken a little by surprise. This was the Duke of Deanshire—this quite insignificant-looking personage—he was the owner of the great house and the husband of the great lady,—and yet he had the appearance of a very ordinary nobody. But that he was a "somebody" of paramount importance there was no doubt; and when he said, "May I give you my arm and take you through the rooms? There are one or two pictures you may like to see," she was a little startled. She looked round for Miss Leigh, but that tactful lady, seeing the position, had disappeared. So she laid her little cream-gloved hand on the Duke's arm and went with him, shyly at first, yet with a pretty stateliness which was all her own, and moving slowly among the crowd of guests, gradually recovered her ease and self-possession, and began to talk to him with a delightful naturalness and candour which fairly captivated His Grace, in fact, "bowled him over," as he afterwards declared. She was blissfully unaware that his manner of escorting her on his arm through the long vista of the magnificent rooms had been commanded and arranged by the Duchess, in order that she should be well looked at and criticised by all assembled as the "show" person of the evening. She was so unconscious of the ordeal to which she was being subjected that she bore it with the perfect indifference which such unconsciousness gives. All at once the Duke came to a standstill.
"Here is a great friend of mine—one of the best I have in the world," he said—"I want to introduce him to you,"—this, as a tall old man paused near them with a smile and enquiring glance, "Lord Blythe—Miss Armitage."
Innocent's heart gave a wild bound; for a moment she felt a struggling sensation in her throat moving her to cry out, and it was only with a violent effort that she repressed herself.
"You've heard of Miss Armitage—Ena Armitage,—haven't you, Blythe?" went on the Duke, garrulously. "Of course! all the world has heard of her!"
"Indeed it has!" and Lord Blythe bowed ceremoniously. "May I congratulate you on winning your laurels while you are young enough to enjoy them! One moment!—my wife is most anxious to meet you—"
He turned to look for her, while Innocent, trembling violently, wondered desperately whether it would be possible for her to run away!—anywhere—anywhere, rather than endure what she knew must come! The Duke noticed her sudden pallor with concern.
"Are you cold?" he asked—"I hope there is no draught—-"
"Oh no—no!" she murmured—"It is nothing—"
Then she braced herself up in every nerve—drawing her little body erect, as though a lily should lift itself to the sun—she saw Lord Blythe approaching with a handsome woman dressed in silvery grey and wearing a coronet of emeralds—and in one more moment looked full in the face—of her mother!
"Lady Blythe—Miss Armitage."
Lady Blythe turned white to the lips. Her dark eyes opened widely in amazement and fear—she put out a hand as though to steady herself. Her husband caught it, alarmed.
"Maude! Are you ill?"
"Not at all!" and she forced a laugh. "I am perfectly—perfectly well!—a little faint perhaps! The heat, I think! Yes—of course! Miss Armitage—the famous author! I am—I am very proud to meet you!"
"Most kind of you!" said Innocent, quietly.
And they still looked at each other, very strangely.
The men beside them were a little embarrassed, the Duke twirled his short white moustache, and Lord Blythe glanced at his wife with some wonder and curiosity. Both imagined, with the usual short-sightedness of the male sex, that the women had taken a sudden fantastic dislike to one another.
"By jove, she's jealous!" thought the Duke, fully aware that Lady
Blythe was occasionally "moved that way."
"The girl seems frightened of her," was Lord Blythe's inward comment, knowing that his wife did not always create a sympathetic atmosphere.
But her ladyship was soon herself again and laughed quite merrily at her husband's anxious expression.
"I'm all right—really!" she said, with a quick, almost defiant turn of her head towards him, the emeralds in her dark hair flashing with a sinister gleam like lightning on still water. "You must remember it's rather overwhelming to be introduced to a famous author and think of just the right thing to say at the right moment! Isn't it, Miss Armitage?"
"It is as you feel," replied Innocent, coldly.
Lady Blythe rattled on gaily.
"Do come and talk to me for a few moments!—it will be so good of you! The garden's lovely!—shall we go there? Now, my dear Duke, don't look so cross, I'll bring her back to you directly!" and she nodded pleasantly. "You want her, of course!—everybody wants her!—such a celebrity!" then, turning again to Innocent, "Will you come?"
As one in a dream the girl obeyed her inviting gesture, and they passed out of the room together through a large open French window to a terraced garden, dimly illumined in the distance by the glitter of fairy lamps, but for the most part left to the tempered brilliancy of a misty red moon. Once away from the crowd, Lady Blythe walked quickly and impatiently, scarcely looking at the youthful figure that accompanied her own, like a fair ghost gliding step for step beside her. At last she stopped; they were well away from the house in a quaint bit of garden shaded with formal fir-trees and clipped yews, where a fountain dashed up a slender spiral thread of white spray. A strange sense of fury in her broke loose; with pale face and cruel, glittering eyes she turned upon her daughter.
"How dare you!" she half whispered, through her set teeth—"How dare you!"
Innocent drew back a step, and looked at her steadfastly.
"I do not understand you," she said.
"You do understand!—you understand only too well!" and Lady Blythe put her hand to the pearls at her throat as though she felt them choking her. "Oh, I could strike you for your insolence! I wish I had never sought you out or told you how you were born! Is this your revenge for the manner of your birth, that you come to shame me among my own class—my own people—"
Innocent's eyes flashed with a fire seldom seen in their soft depths.
"Shame you?" she echoed. "I? What shame have I brought you? What shame shall I bring? Had you owned me as your child I would have made you proud of me! I would have given you honour,—you abandoned me to strangers, and I have made honour for myself! Shame is YOURS and yours only!—it would be mine if I had to acknowledge YOU as my mother!—you who never had the courage to be true!" Her young voice thrilled with passion.—"I have won my own way! I am something beyond and above you!—'your own class—your own people,' as you call them, are at MY feet,—and you—you who played with my father's heart and spoilt his career—you have lived to know that I, his deserted child, have made his name famous!"
Lady Blythe stared at her like some enraged cat ready to spring.
"His name—his name!" she muttered, fiercely. "Yes, and how dare you take it? You have no right to it in law!"
"Wise law, just law!" said the girl, passionately. "Would you rather I had taken yours? I might have done so had I known it—though I think not, as I should have been ashamed of any 'maiden' name you had dishonoured! When you came to Briar Farm to find me—to see me—so late, so late!—after long years of desertion—I told you it was possible to make a name;—one cannot go nameless through the world! I have made mine!—independently and honestly—in fact"—and she smiled, a sad cold smile—"it is an honour for you, my mother, to know me, your daughter!"
Lady Blythe's face grew ghastly pale in the uncertain light of the half-veiled moon. She moved a step and caught the girl's arm with some violence.
"What do you mean to do?" she asked, in an angry whisper, "I must know! What are your plans of vengeance?—your campaign of notoriety?—your scheme of self-advertisement? What claim will you make?"
"None!" and Innocent looked at her fully, with calm and fearless dignity. "I have no claim upon you, thank God! I am less to you than a dropped lamb, lost in a thicket of thorns, is to the sheep that bore it! That's a rough country simile,—I was brought up on a farm, you know!—but it will serve your case. Think nothing of me, as I think nothing of you! What I am, or what I may be to the world, is my own affair!"
There was a pause. Presently Lady Blythe gave a kind of shrill hysterical laugh.
"Then, when we meet in society, as we have met to-night, it will be as comparative strangers?"
"Why, of course!—we have always been strangers," the girl replied, quietly. "No strangers were ever more strange to each other than we!"
"You mean to keep MY secret?—and your own?"
"Certainly. Do you suppose I would give my father's name to slander?"
"Your father!—you talk of your father as if HE was worth consideration!—he was chiefly to blame for your position—"
"Was he? I am not quite sure of that," said Innocent, slowly—"I do not know all the circumstances. But I have heard that he was a great artist; and that some woman he loved ruined his life. And I believe you are that woman!"
Lady Blythe laughed—a hard mirthless laugh.
"Believe what you like!" she said—"You are an imaginative little fool! When you know more of the world you will find out that men ruin women's lives as casually as cracking nuts, but they take jolly good care of their own skins! Pierce Armitage was too selfish a man to sacrifice his own pleasure and comfort for anyone—he was glad to get rid of me—and of YOU! And now—now!" She threw up her hands with an expressive, half-tragic gesture. "Now you are famous!—actually famous! Good heavens!—why, I thought you would stay in that old farmhouse all your life, scrubbing the floors and looking after the poultry, and perhaps marrying some good-natured country yokel! Famous!—you!—with social London dancing attendance on you! What a ghastly comedy!" She laughed again. "Come!—we must go back to the house."
They walked side by side—the dark full-figured woman and the fair slight girl—the one a mere ephemeral unit in an exclusively aristocratic and fashionable "set,"—the other, the possessor of a sudden brilliant fame which was spreading a new light across the two hemispheres. Not another word was exchanged between them, and as they re-entered the ducal reception-rooms, now more crowded than ever, Lord Blythe met them.
"I was just going to look for you," he said to his wife—"There are dozens of people waiting to be presented to Miss Armitage; the Duchess has asked for her several times."
Lady Blythe turned to Innocent with a dazzling smile.
"How guilty I feel!" she exclaimed. "Everybody wanting to see you, and I selfishly detaining you in the garden! It was so good of you to give me a few minutes!—you, the guest of the evening too! Good-night!—in case I don't find you again in this crowd!"
She moved away then, leaving Innocent fairly bewildered by her entire coolness and self-possession. She herself, poor child, moved to the very soul by the interview she had just gone through, was trembling with extreme nervousness, and could hardly conceal her agitation.
"I'm afraid you've caught cold!" said Lord Blythe, kindly—"That will never do! I promised I would take you to the Duchess as soon as I found you—she has some friends with her who wish to meet you. Will you come?"
She smiled assent, looking up at him gratefully and thinking what a handsome old man he was, with his tall, well-formed figure and fine intellectual face on which the constant progress of good thoughts had marked many a pleasant line. Her mother's husband!—and she wondered how it happened that such a woman had been chosen for a wife by such a man!
"They're going to dance in the ball-room directly," he continued, as he guided her through the pressing throng of people. "You will not be without partners! Are you fond of dancing?"
Her face lighted up with the lovely youthful look that gave her such fascination and sweetness of expression.
"Yes, I like it very much, though before I came to London I only knew country dances such as they dance at harvest-homes; but of course here, you all dance so differently!—it is only just going round and round! But it's quite pleasant and rather amusing."
"You were brought up in the country then?" he said.
"Yes, entirely. I came to London about two years ago."
"But—I hope you don't think me too inquisitive!—where did you study literature?"
She laughed a little.
"I don't think I studied it at all," she answered, "I just loved it! There was a small library of very old books in the farmhouse where I lived, and I read and re-read these. Then, when I was about sixteen, it suddenly came into my head that I would try to write a story myself—and I did. Little by little it grew into a book, and I brought it to London and finished it here. You know the rest!"
"Like Byron, you awoke one morning to find yourself famous!" said Lord
Blythe, smiling. "You have no parents living?"
Her cheeks burned with a hot blush as she replied.
"No."
"A pity! They would have been very proud of you. Here is the Duchess!"
And in another moment she was drawn into the vortex of a brilliant circle surrounding her hostess—men and women of notable standing in politics, art and letters, to whom the Duchess presented her with the half kindly, half patronising air of one who feels that any genius in man or woman is a kind of disease, and that the person affected by it must be soothingly considered as a sort of "freak" or nondescript creature, like a white crow or a red starling.
"These abnormal people are so interesting!" she was wont to say. "These prodigies and things! I love them! They're often quite ugly and have rude manners—Beethoven used to eat with his fingers I believe; wasn't it wonderful of him! Such a relief from the conventional way! When I was quite a girl I used to adore a man in Paris who played the 'cello divinely—a perfect marvel!—but he wouldn't comb his hair or blow his nose properly—and it wasn't very nice!—not that it mattered much, he was such a wonderful artist! Oh yes, I know! it wouldn't have lessened his genius to have wiped his nose with a handkerchief instead of—! well!—perhaps we'd better not mention it!" And she would laugh charmingly and again murmur, "These deaf abnormal people!"
With Innocent, however, she was somewhat put off her usual line of conduct; the girl was too graceful and easy-mannered to be called "abnormal" or eccentric; she was perfectly modest, simple and unaffected, and the Duchess was a trifle disappointed that she was not ill-dressed, frowsy, frumpish and blue-spectacled.
"She's so young too!" thought her Grace, half crossly—"Almost a child!—and not in the least 'bookish.' It seems quite absurd that such a baby-looking creature should be actually a genius, and famous at twenty! Simply amazing!"
And she watched the little "lion" or lioness of the evening with keen interest and curiosity, whimsically vexed that it did not roar, snort, or make itself as noticeable as certain other animals of the literary habitat whom she had occasionally entertained. Just then a mirthful, mellow voice spoke close beside her.
"Where is the new Corinne? The Sappho of the Leucadian rock of London?
Has she met her Phaon?"
"How late you are, Amadis!" and the Duchess smiled captivatingly as she extended her hand to Jocelyn, who gallantly stooped and kissed the perfectly fitting glove which covered it. "If you mean Miss Armitage, she is just over there talking to two old fogies. I think they're Cabinet ministers—they look it! She's quite the success of the evening,—and pretty, don't you think?"
Jocelyn looked, and saw the small fair head rising like a golden flower from sea-blue draperies; he smiled enigmatically.
"Not exactly," he answered, "But spirituelle—she has what some painters might call an imaginative head—she could pose very well for St. Dorothy. I can quite realise her preferring the executioner's axe to the embraces of Theophilus."
The Duchess gave him a swift glance and touched his arm with the edge of her fan.
"Are you going to make love to her?" she asked. "You make love to every woman—but most women understand your sort of love-making—"
"Do they?" and his blue eyes flashed amusement. "And what do they think of it?"
"They laugh at it!" she answered, calmly. "But that clever child would not laugh—she would take it au grand serieux."
He passed his hand carelessly through the rough dark hair which gave his ruggedly handsome features a singular softness and charm.
"Would she? My dear Duchess, nobody takes anything 'au grand serieux' nowadays. We grin through every scene of life, and we don't know and don't care whether it's comedy or tragedy we're grinning at! It doesn't do to be serious. I never am. 'Life is real, life is earnest' was the line of conduct practised by my French ancestors; they cut up all their enemies with long swords, and then sat down to wild boar roasted whole for dinner. That was real life, earnest life! We in our day don't cut up our enemies with long swords—we cut them up in the daily press. It's so much easier!"
"How you love to hear yourself talk!" commented the Duchess. "I let you do it—but I know you don't mean half you say!"
"You think not? Well, I'm going to join the court of Corinne—she's not the usual type of Corinne—I fancy she has a heart—"
"And you want to steal it if you can, of course!" and the Duchess laughed. "Men always long for what they haven't got, and tire of what they have!"
"True, O Queen! We are made so! Blame, not us, but the Creator of the poor world-mannikins!"
He moved away and was soon beside Innocent, who blushed into a pretty rose at sight of him.
"I thought you were never coming!" she said, shyly. "I'm so glad you are here!"
He looked at her with an admiring softness in his eyes.
"May I have the first dance?" he said. "I timed myself to gain the privilege."
She gave him her dance programme where no name was yet inscribed. He took it and scribbled his name down several times, then handed it back to her. Several of the younger men in the group which had gathered about her laughed and remonstrated.
"Give somebody else a chance, Miss Armitage!"
She looked round upon them, smiling.
"But of course! Mr. Amadis de Jocelyn has not taken all?"
They laughed again.
"His name dominates your programme, anyhow!"
Her eyes shone softly.
"It is a beautiful name!" she said.
"Granted! But show a little mercy to the unbeautiful names!" said one man near her. "My name, for instance, is Smith—can you tolerate it?"
She gave a light gesture of protest.
"You play with me!" she said—"Of course! You will find a dance, Mr.
Smith!—and I will dance it with you!"
They were all now ready for fun, and taking her programme handed it round amongst themselves and soon filled it. When it came back to her she looked at it, amazed.
"But I shall never dance all these!" she exclaimed.
"No, you will sit out some of them," said Jocelyn, coolly—"With me!"
The ball-room doors were just then thrown invitingly open and entrancing strains of rhythmical music came swinging and ringing in sweet cadence on the ears. He passed his arm round her waist.
"We'll begin the revelry!" he said, and in another moment she felt herself floating deliciously, as it were, in his arms—her little feet flying over the polished floor, his hand warmly clasping her slim soft body—and her heart fluttered wildly like the beating wings of a snared bird as she fell into the mystic web woven by the strange and pitiless loom of destiny. The threads were already tangling about her—but she made no effort to escape. She was happy in her dream; she imagined that her Ideal had been found in the Real.
CHAPTER IV
The first waltz over, Jocelyn led his partner out of the ball-room.
"Come into the garden," he said. "It's quite a real garden for London—and I know every inch of it. We'll find a quiet corner and sit down and rest."
She answered nothing—she was flushed, and breathing quickly from the excitement of the dance, and he paused on his way to pick up a light wrap he found on one of the sofas, and put it round her shoulders.
"You mustn't catch a chill," he went on. "But it's not a cold night—in fact it's very close and sultry—almost like thunder. A little air will be good for us."
They went together, pacing along slowly—she meanwhile thinking of her previous walk in that same garden!—what would he, Amadis de Jocelyn, say of it and of her "mother" if he knew! He looked at her sideways now and then, curiously moved by mingled pity, admiration and desire,—the cruelty latent in every man made him long to awaken the first spark of passion in that maidenly soul,—and with the full consciousness of a powerful personality, he was perfectly aware that he could do so if he chose. But he waited, playing with the fire of his own inclinations, and talking lightly and charmingly of things which he knew would interest her sufficiently to make her, in her turn, talk to him naturally and candidly, thereby displaying more or less of her disposition and temperament. With every word she spoke he found her more and more fascinating—she had a quaint directness of speech which was extremely refreshing after the half-veiled subtleties conveyed in the often dubious conversation of the women he was accustomed to meet in society—while there was no doubt she was endowed with extraordinary intellectual grasp and capacity. Her knowledge of things artistic and literary might, perhaps, have been termed archaic, but it was based upon the principles which are good and true for all time—and as she told him quite simply and unaffectedly of her studies by herself among the old books which had belonged to the "Sieur Amadis" of Briar Farm, he was both touched and interested.
"So you made quite a friend of the Sieur Amadis!" he said. "He was your teacher and guide! I'm jealous of him!"
She laughed softly. "He was a spirit," she said—"You are a man."
"Well, his spirit has had a good innings with you!" and, taking her hand, he drew it within his arm—"I bear his name, and it's time I came in somewhere!"
She laughed again, a trifle nervously.
"You think so? But you do come in! You are here with me now!"
He bent his eyes upon her with an ardour he did not attempt to conceal, and her heart leaped within her—a warmth like fire ran swiftly through her veins. He heard her sigh,—he saw her tremble beneath his gaze. There was an elf-like fascination about her child-like face and figure as she moved glidingly beside him—a "belle dame sans merci" charm which roused the strongly amorous side of his nature. He quickened his steps a little as he led her down a sloping path, shut in on either side by tall trees, where there was a seat placed invitingly in the deepest shadow and where the dim uplifted moon cast but the faintest glimmer, just sufficiently to make the darkness visible.
"Shall we stay here a little while?" he said, in a low tone.
She made no reply. Something vaguely sweet and irresistible overpowered her,—she was barely conscious of herself, or of anything, save that "Amadis de Jocelyn" was beside her. She had lived so long in her dream of the old French knight, whose written thoughts and confessions had influenced her imagination and swayed her mind since childhood, that she could not detach herself from the idealistic conception she had formed of his character,—and to her the sixteenth-century "Amadis" had become embodied in this modern man of brilliant but erratic genius, who, if the truth were told, had nothing idealistic about him but his art, which in itself was more the outcome of emotionalism than conviction. He drew her gently down beside him, feeling her quiver like a leaf touched by the wind, and his own heart began to beat with a pleasurable thrill. The silence around them seemed waiting for speech, but none came. It was one of those tense moments on which sometimes hangs the happiness or the misery of a lifetime—a stray thread from the web of Chance, which may be woven into a smooth pattern or knotted into a cruel tangle,—a freakish circumstance in which the human beings most concerned are helplessly involved without any conscious premonition of impending fate. Suddenly, yielding to a passionate impulse, he caught her close in his arms and kissed her.
"Forgive me!" he whispered—"I could not help it!"
She put him gently back from her with two little hands that caressed rather than repulsed him, and gazed at him with startled, tender eyes in which a new and wonderful radiance shone,—while he in self-confident audacity still held her in his embrace.
"You are not angry?" he went on, in quick, soft accents. "No! Why should you be? Why should not love come to you as to other women! Don't analyse!—don't speak! There is nothing to be said—we know all!"
Silently she clung to him, yielding more and more to the sensation of exquisite joy that poured through her whole being like sunlight—her heart beat with new and keener life,—the warm kindling blood burned her cheeks like the breath of a hot wind—and her whole soul rose to meet and greet what she in her poor credulousness welcomed as the crown and glory of existence—love! Love was hers, she thought—at last!—she knew the great secret,—the long delight that death itself could not destroy,—her ideal of romance was realised, and Amadis de Jocelyn, the brave, the true, the chivalrous, the strong, was her very own! Enchanted with the ease of his conquest, he played with her pretty hair as with a bird's wing, and held her against his heart, sensuously gratified to feel her soft breast heaving with its pent-up emotion, and to hear her murmured words of love confessed.
"How I have wished and prayed that you might love me!" she said, raising her dewy eyes to his in the darkness. "Is it good when God grants one's prayers? I am almost afraid! My Amadis! It is a dream come true!"
He was amused at her fidelity to the romance which surrounded his name.
"Dear child, I am not a 'knight of old'—don't think it!" he said. "You mustn't run away with that idea and make me a kind of sixteenth-century sentimentalist. I couldn't live up to it!"
"You are more than a knight of old," she answered, proudly—"You are a great genius!"
He was embarrassed by her simple praise.
"No," he answered—"Not even that—sweet soul as you are!—not even that! You think I am—but you do not know. You are a clever, imaginative little girl—and I love to hear you praise me—but—"
Her lips touched his shyly and sweetly.
"No 'buts!'" she said,—"I shall always stop your mouth if you put a 'but' against any work you do!"
"In that way?" he asked, smiling.
"Yes! In that way."
"Then I shall put a 'but' to everything!" he declared.
They laughed together like children.
"Where is Miss Leigh all this while?" he queried.
She started, awaking suddenly to conventions and commonplaces.
"Poor little godmother! She must be wondering where I am! But I did not leave her,—she left me when the Duke took charge of me—I lost sight of her then."
"Well, we must go and find her now"—and Jocelyn again folded his arms closely round the dainty, elf-like figure in its moonlight-blue draperies. "Innocent, look at me!"
She lifted her eyes, and as she met his, glowing with the fervent fire of a new passion, her cheeks grew hot and she was thankful for the darkness. His lips closed on hers in a long kiss.
"This is our secret!" he said—"You must not speak of it to anyone."
"How could I speak of it?" she asked, wonderingly.
He let her go from his embrace, and taking her hand began to walk slowly with her towards the house.
"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.
"You are right! She certainly was not what I expected! Is the door well shut?"
Surprised at her look and manner, he went to see.
"The door is quite closed," he said, rather stiffly. "One would think we were talking secrets—and we never do!"
"No!" she rejoined, looking at him curiously—"We never do. We are model husband and wife, having nothing to conceal!"
He took up his cigar which he had laid down for a minute, and with careful minuteness flicked off the ash.
"You have something to tell me," he remarked, quietly—"Pray go on, and don't let me interrupt you. Do you object to my smoking?"
"Not in the least."
He stood with his back to the fireplace, a tall, stately figure of a man, and looked at her expectantly,—she meanwhile reclined in a cushioned chair with the folds of her ermine falling about her, like a queen of languorous luxury.
"I suppose," she began—"hardly anything in the social life of our day would very much surprise or shock you—?"
"Very little, certainly!" he answered, smiling coldly—"I have lived a long time, and am not easily surprised!"
"Not even if it concerned some one you know?"
His fine open brow knitted itself in a momentary line of puzzled consideration.
"Some one I know?" he repeated—"Well, I should certainly be very sorry to hear anything of a scandalous nature connected with the girl we saw last night—she looked too young and too innocent—"
"Innocent—oh yes!" and Lady Blythe again laughed that harsh laugh of suppressed hysterical excitement—"She is innocent enough!"
"Pardon! I thought you were about to speak of her, as you said she was not what you expected—"
He paused,—startled by the haggard and desperate expression of her face.
"Richard," she said—"You are a good man, and you hold very strong opinions about truth and honour and all that sort of thing. I don't believe you could ever understand badness—real, downright badness—could you?"
"Badness? … in that child?" he exclaimed.
She gave an impatient, angry gesture.
"Dear me, you are perfectly obsessed by 'that child,' as you call her!" she answered—"You had better know the truth then at once,—'that child' is my daughter!"
"Your daughter?—your—your—"
The words died on his lips—he staggered slightly as though under a sudden physical blow, and gripped the mantelpiece behind him with one hand.
"Good God!" he half whispered—"What do you mean?—you have had no children—"
"Not by you,—no!" she said, with a flash of scorn—"Not in marriage, that church-and-law form of union!—but by love and passion—yes! Stop!—do not look at me like that! I have not been false to you—I have not betrayed you! Your honour has been safe with me! It was before I met you that this thing happened."
He stood rigid and very pale.
"Before you met me?"
"Yes. I was a silly, romantic, headstrong girl,—my parents were compelled to go abroad, and I was left in the charge of one of my mother's society friends—a thoroughly worldly, unprincipled woman whose life was made up of intrigue and gambling. And I ran away with a man—Pierce Armitage—"
"Pierce Armitage!"
The name broke from him like a cry of agony.
"Yes—Pierce Armitage. Did you know him?"
He looked at her with eyes in which there was a strange horror.
"Know him? He was my best friend!"
She shrugged her shoulders, and a slight weary smile parted her lips.
"Well, you never told me,—I have never heard you mention his name. But the world is a small place!—and when I was a girl he was beginning to be known by a good many people. Anyhow, he threw up everything in the way of his art and work, and ran away with me. I went quite willingly—I took a maid whom we bribed,—we pretended we were married, and we had a charming time together—a time of real romance, till he began to get tired and want change—all men are like that! Then he became a bore with a bad temper. He certainly behaved very well when he knew the child was coming, and offered to marry me in real earnest—but I refused."
"You refused!" Lord Blythe echoed the words in a kind of stupefied wonderment.
"Of course I did. He was quite poor—and I should have been miserable running about the world with a man who depended on art for a living. Besides he was ceasing to be a lover—and as a husband he would have been insupportable. We managed everything very well—my own people were all in India—and my mother's friend, if she guessed my affair, said nothing about it,—wisely enough for her own sake!—so that when my time came I was able to go away on an easy pretext and get it all over secretly. Pierce came and stayed in a hotel close at hand—he was rather in a fright lest I should die!—it would have been such an awkward business for him!—however, all went well, and when I had quite recovered he took the child away from me, and left it at an old farmhouse he had once made a drawing of, saying he would call back for it—as if it were a parcel!" She laughed lightly. "He wrote and told me what he had done and gave me the address of the farm—then he went abroad, and I never heard of him again—"
"He died," interposed Lord Blythe, slowly—"He died—alone and very poor—"
"So I was told," she rejoined, indifferently—"Oh yes! I see you look at me as if you thought I had no heart! Perhaps I have not,—I used to have something like one,—your friend Armitage killed it in me. Anyhow, I knew the child had been adopted by the farm people as their own, and I took no further trouble. My parents came home from India to inherit an unexpected fortune, and they took me about with them a great deal—they were never told of my romantic escapade!—then I met you—and you married me."
A sigh broke from him, but he said nothing.
"You are sorry you did, I suppose!" she went on in a quick, reckless way—"Anyhow, I tried to do my duty. When I heard by chance that the old farmer who had taken care of the child was dead, I made up my mind to go and see what she was like. I found her, and offered to adopt her—but she wouldn't hear of it—so I let her be."
Lord Blythe moved a little from his statuesque attitude of attention.
"You told her you were her mother?"
"I did."
"And offered to 'adopt' your own child?" She gave an airy gesture.
"It was the only thing to do! One cannot make a social scandal."
"And she refused?"
"She refused."
"I admire her for it," said Lord Blythe, calmly.
She shot an angry glance at him. He went on in cold, deliberate accents.
"You were unprepared for the strange compensation you have received?—the sudden fame of your deserted daughter?"
Her hands clasped and unclasped themselves nervously.
"I knew nothing of it! Armitage is not an uncommon name, and I did not connect it with her. She has no right to wear it."
"If her father were alive he would be proud that she wears it!—moreover he would give her the right to wear it, and would make it legal," said Lord Blythe sternly—"Out of old memory I can say that for him! You recognised each other at once, I suppose, when I presented her to you at the Duchess's reception?"