Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  Innocent shivered, as with sudden cold.

  “A rose has thorns!” she said, as she got up from her kneeling attitude and moved away— “It’s beautiful to look at — but it soon fades!”

  She sent off her reply wire to the publishers without further delay.

  “Statement quite true. You can confirm it publicly.”

  And so the news was soon all over London, and for that matter all over the world. From one end of the globe to the other the fact was made known that a girl in her twentieth year had produced a literary masterpiece, admirable both in design and execution, worthy to rank with the highest work of the most brilliant and renowned authors. She was speedily overwhelmed by letters of admiration, and invitations from every possible quarter where “lion-hunting” is practised as a stimulant to jaded and over-wrought society, but amid all the attractions and gaieties offered to her she held fast by her sheet-anchor of safety, Miss Leigh, who redoubled her loving care and vigilance, keeping her as much as she could in the harbour of that small and exclusive “set” of well-bred and finely-educated people for whom noise and fuss and show meant all that was worst in taste and manners. And remaining more or less in seclusion, despite the growing hubbub around her name, she finished her second book, and took it herself to the great publishing house which was rapidly coining good hard cash out of the delicate dream of her woman’s brain. The head of the firm received her with eager and respectful cordiality.

  “You kept your secret very well!” he said— “I assure you I had no idea you could be the author of such a book! — you are so young—”

  She smiled, a little sadly.

  “One may be young in years and old in thought,” she answered— “I passed all my childhood in reading and studying — I had no playmates and no games — and I was nearly always alone. I had only old books to read — mostly of the sixteenth century — I suppose I formed a ‘style’ unconsciously on these.”

  “It is a very beautiful and expressive style,” said the publisher— “I told Mr. Harrington, when he first suggested that you might be the author, that it was altogether too scholarly for a girl.”

  She gave a slight deprecatory gesture.

  “Pray do not let us discuss it,” she said— “I am not at all pleased to be known as the author.”

  “No?” And he looked surprised— “Surely you must be happy to become so suddenly famous?”

  “Are famous persons happy?” she asked— “I don’t think they are! To be stared at and whispered about and criticised — that’s not happiness! And men never like you!”

  The publisher laughed.

  “You can do without their liking, Miss Armitage,” he said— “You’ve beaten all the literary fellows on their own ground! You ought to be satisfied. WE are very proud!”

  “Thank you!” she said, simply, as she rose to go— “I am grateful for your good opinion.”

  When she had left him, the publisher eagerly turned over the pages of her new manuscript. At a glance he saw that there was no “falling-off” — he recognised the same lucidity of expression, the same point and delicacy of phraseology which had distinguished her first effort, and the wonderful charm with which a thought was pressed firmly yet tenderly home to its mark.

  “It will be a greater triumph for her and for us than the previous book!” he said— “She’s a wonder! — and the most wonderful thing about her is that she has no conceit, and is unconscious of her own power!”

  Two or three days after the announcement of her authorship, came a letter from Robin Clifford.

  “DEAR INNOCENT,” it ran, “I see that your name, or rather the name you have taken for yourself, is made famous as that of the author of a book which is creating a great sensation — and I venture to write a word of congratulation, hoping it may be acceptable to you from your playmate and friend of bygone days. I can hardly believe that the dear little ‘Innocent’ of Briar Farm has become such a celebrated and much-talked-of personage, for after all it is not yet two years since you left us. I have told Priscilla, and she sends her love and duty, and hopes God will allow her to see you once again before she dies. The work of the farm goes on as usual, and everything prospers — all is as Uncle Hugo would have wished — all except one thing which I know will never be! But you must not think I grumble at my fate. I might feel lonely if I had not plenty of work to do and people dependent on me — but under such circumstances I manage to live a life that is at least useful to others and I want for nothing. In the evenings when the darkness closes in, and we light the tall candles in the old pewter sconces, I often wish I could see a little fair head shining like a cameo against the dark oak panelling — a vision of grace and hope and comfort! — but as this cannot be, I read old books — even some of those belonging to your favourite French Knight Amadis! — and try to add to the little learning I gained at Oxford. I am sending for your book! — when it comes I shall read every word of it with an interest too deep to be expressed to you in my poor language. ‘Cupid’ is well — he flies to my hand, surprised, I think, to find it of so rough a texture as compared with the little rose-velvet palm to which he was accustomed. Will you ever come to Briar Farm again? God bless you! ROBIN.”

  She shed some tears over this letter — then, moved by a sudden impulse, sat down and answered it at once, giving a full account of her meeting and acquaintance with another Amadis de Jocelyn— “the real last descendant,” she wrote, “of the real old family of the very Amadis of Briar Farm!” She described his appearance and manners, — descanted on his genius as a painter, and all unconsciously poured out her ardent, enthusiastic soul on this wonderful discovery of the Real in the Ideal. She said nothing of her own work or success, save that she was glad to be able to earn her living. And when Robin read the simple outflow of her thoughts his heart grew cold within him. He, with the keen instinct of a lover, guessed at once all that might happen, — saw the hidden fire smouldering, and became conscious of an inexplicable dread, as though a note of alarm had sounded mystically in his brain. What would happen to Innocent, if she, with her romantic, old-world fancies, should allow a possible traitor to intrude within the crystal-pure sphere where her sweet soul dwelt unsullied and serene? He told Priscilla the strange story — and she in her shrewd, motherly way felt something of the same fear.

  “Eh, the poor lamb!” she sighed— “That old French knight was ever a fly in her brain and a stumbling-block in the way of us all! — and now to come across a man o’ the same name an’ family, turning up all unexpected like, — why, it’s like a ghost’s sudden risin’ from the tomb! An’ what does it mean, Mister Robin? Are you the master o’ Briar Farm now? — or is he the rightful one?”

  Clifford laughed, a trifle bitterly.

  “I am the master,” he said, “according to my uncle’s will. This man is a painter — famous and admired, — he’ll scarcely go in for farming! If he did — if he’d buy the farm from me — I should be glad enough to sell it and leave the country.”

  “Mister Robin!” cried Priscilla, reproachfully.

  He patted her hand gently.

  “Not yet — not yet anyhow, Priscilla!” he said— “I may be yet of some use — to Innocent.” He paused, then added, slowly— “I think we shall hear more of this second Amadis de Jocelyn!”

  But months went on, and he heard nothing, save of Innocent’s growing fame which, by leaps and bounds, was spreading abroad like fire blown into brightness by the wind. He got her first book and read it with astonishment and admiration, utterly confounded by its brilliancy and power. When her second work appeared with her adopted name appended to it as the author, all the reading world “rushed” at it, and equally “rushed” at HER, lifting her, as it were, on their shoulders and bearing her aloft, against her own desire, above the seething tide of fashion and frivolity as though she were a queen of many kingdoms, crowned with victory. And again the old journalist, John Harrington, sought an audience of her, and this time was not refused. She receive
d him in Miss Leigh’s little drawing-room, holding out both her hands to him in cordial welcome, with a smile frank and sincere enough to show him at a glance that her “celebrity” had left her unscathed. She was still the same simple child-like soul, wearing the mystical halo of spiritual dreams rather than the brazen baldric of material prosperity — and he, bitterly seasoned in the hardest ways of humanity, felt a thrill of compassion as he looked at her, wondering how her frail argosy, freighted with fine thought and rich imagination, would weather a storm should storms arise. He sat talking for a long time with her and Miss Leigh — reminding her pleasantly of their journey up to London together, — while she, in her turn, amused and astonished him by avowing the fact that it was his loan of the “Morning Post” that had led her, through an advertisement, to the house where she was now living.

  “So I’ve had something of a hand in it all!” he said, cheerily— “I’m glad of that! It was chance or luck, or whatever you call it! — but I never thought that the little girl with the frightened eyes, carrying a satchel for all her luggage, was a future great author, to whom I, as a poor old journalist, would have to bow!” He laughed kindly as he spoke— “And you are still a little girl! — or you look one! I feel disposed to play literary grandfather to you! But you want nobody’s help — you have made yourself!”

  “She has, indeed!” said Miss Leigh, with pride sparkling in her tender eyes— “When she came here, and suddenly decided to stay with me, I had no idea of her plans, or what she was studying. She used to shut herself up all the morning and write — she told me she was finishing off some work — in fact it was her first book, — a manuscript she brought with her from the country in that famous satchel! I knew nothing at all about it till she confided to me one day that she had written a book, and that it had been accepted by a publisher. I was amazed!”

  “And the result must have amazed you still more,” said Harrington,— “but I’m a very astute person! — and I guessed at once, when I was told the address of the ‘PRIVATE SECRETARY of the author,’ that the SECRETARY was the author herself!”

  Innocent blushed.

  “Perhaps it was wrong to say what was not true,” she said, “but really I WAS and AM the secretary of the author! — I write all the manuscript with my own hand!”

  They laughed at this, and then Harrington went on to say —

  “I believe you know the painter Amadis Jocelyn, don’t you? Yes? Well, I was with him the other day, and I said you were the author of the wonderful book. He told me I was talking nonsense — that you couldn’t be, — he had met you at an artist’s evening party and that you had told him a story about some ancestor of his own family. ‘She’s a nice little thing with baby eyes,’ he said, ‘but she couldn’t write a clever book! She may have got some man to write it for her!’”

  Innocent gave a little cry of pain.

  “Oh! — did he say that?”

  “Of course he did! All men say that sort of thing! They can’t bear a woman to do more than marry and have children. Simple girl with the satchel, don’t you know that? You mustn’t mind it — it’s their way. Of course I rounded on Jocelyn and told him he was a fool, with a swelled head on the subject of his own sex — he IS a fool in many ways, — he’s a great painter, but he might be much greater if he’d get up early in the morning and stick to his work. He ought to have been in the front rank long ago.”

  “But surely he IS in the front rank?” queried Miss Leigh, mildly— “He is a wonderful artist!”

  “Wonderful — yes! — with a lot of wonderful things in him which haven’t come out!” declared Harrington, “and which never will come out, I fear! He turns night into day too often. Oh, he’s clever! — I grant you all that — but he hasn’t a resolute will or a great mind, like Watts or Burne-Jones or any of the fellows who served their art nobly — he’s a selfish sort of chap!”

  Innocent heard, and longed to utter a protest — she wanted to say-”No, no! — you wrong him! He is good and noble — he must be! — he is Amadis de Jocelyn!”

  But she repressed her thought and sat very quiet, — then, when

  Harrington paused, she told him in a sweet, even voice the story of the

  “Knight of France” who founded Briar Farm. He was enthralled — not so

  much by the tale as by her way of telling it.

  “And so Jocelyn the painter is the lineal descendant of the BROTHER of your Jocelin! — the knight who disappeared and took to farming in the days of Elizabeth!” he said— “Upon my word, it’s a quaint bit of history and coincidence — almost too romantic for such days as these!”

  Innocent smiled.

  “Is romance at an end now?” she asked.

  Harrington looked at her kindly.

  “Almost! It’s gasping its last gasp in company with poetry. Realism is our only wear — Realism and Prose — very prosy Prose. YOU are a romantic child! — I can see that! — but don’t over-do it! And if you ever made an ideal out of your sixteenth-century man, don’t make another out of the twentieth-century one! He couldn’t stand it! — he’d crumble at a touch!”

  She answered nothing, but avoided his glance. He prepared to take his leave — and on rising from his chair suddenly caught sight of the portrait on the harpsichord.

  “I know that face!” he said, quickly,— “Who is he?”

  “He WAS also a painter — as great as the one we have just been speaking of,” answered Miss Leigh— “His name was Pierce Armitage.”

  “That’s it!” exclaimed Harrington, with some excitement. “Of course!

  Pierce Armitage! I knew him! One of the handsomest fellows I ever saw!

  THERE was an artist, if you like! — he might have been anything! What

  became of him? — do you know?”

  “He died abroad, so it is said” — and Miss Leigh’s gentle voice trembled a little— “but nothing is quite certainly known—”

  Harrington turned swiftly to stare eagerly at Innocent.

  “YOUR name is Armitage!” he said— “and do you know you are rather like him! Your face reminds me — Are you any relative?”

  She gave the usual answer —

  “No.”

  “Strange!” He bent his eyes scrutinisingly upon her. “I remember I thought the same thing when I first met you — and HIS features are not easily forgotten! You have his eyes — and mouth, — you might almost be his daughter!”

  Her breath quickened —

  “I wish I were!” she said.

  He still looked puzzled.

  “No — don’t wish for what would perhaps be a misfortune!” he said— “You’ve done very well for yourself! — but don’t be romantic! Keep that old ‘French knight’ of yours in the pages of an old French chronicle! — shut the volume, — lock it up, — and — lose the key!”

  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 receivin
g 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?”