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

by Marie Corelli

  “I shall not name it as the portrait of a living woman,” he said to himself— “I shall call it simply— ‘Innocent.’”

  As he thought this, the subject of the painting herself entered the studio. He turned at the sound of the door opening, and caught a strange new impression of her, — an impression that moved him to a touch of something like fear. Was she going to be tiresome, he wondered? — would she make him a “scene” — or do something odd as women generally did when their feelings escaped control? Her face was very pale — her eyes startlingly bright, — and the graceful white summer frock she wore, with soft old lace falling about it, a costume completed in perfection by a picturesque Leghorn hat bound with black velvet and adorned with a cluster of pale roses, made her a study worthy the brush of many a greater artist than Amadis de Jocelyn. His quick eye noted every detail of her dainty dress and fair looks as he went to meet her and took her in his arms. She clung to him for a moment — and he felt her tremble.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, with unconscious sharpness— “Is anything wrong?”

  She put him away from her tenderly and looked up smiling — but there was a sparkling dew in her eyes.

  “No, my Amadis! Nothing wrong!”

  He heaved a quick sigh of relief.

  “Thank heaven! You looked at me as if you had a grievance — all women have grievances — but they should keep them to themselves.”

  She gave the slightest little shrug of her shoulders; then went and sat on the highest step of the familiar dais where she had posed for her picture, and waited a moment. He did not at once come to sit beside her as he had so often done — he stood opposite his easel, looking at her portrait but not at her.

  “I have no grievance,” she said then, making an effort to steady her voice, which trembled despite herself— “And if I had I should not vex you with it. But — when you can quite spare the time I should like a quiet little talk with you.”

  He looked round at her with a kind smile.

  “Just what I want to have with you! ‘Les beaux esprits se rencontrent’ — and we both want exactly the same thing! Dear little girl, how sensible you are! Of course we must talk — about the future.”

  A lovely radiance lit up her face.

  “That is what I thought you would wish,” she said— “Now that the portrait is finished.”

  “Well, — all but a touch or two,” he rejoined— “I shall ask a few people to come here and see it before it leaves London. Then it must be property packed in readiness for Paris before — before I go—”

  Her eyes opened in sudden terrified wonderment.

  “Before you go — where?”

  He laughed a little awkwardly.

  “Oh — only a short journey — on business — I will explain when we have our talk out — not now — in a day or two—”

  He left the easel, and coming to where she sat, lifted her in his arms and folded her close to his breast.

  “You sweet soul!” he murmured— “You little Innocent! You are so pretty to-day! — you madden me—”

  He unfastened her hat and put it aside, — then drawing her closer, showered quick eager kisses on her lips, eyes and warm soft neck. He felt her heart beating wildly and her whole body trembling under his gust of passion.

  “You love me — you truly love me?” she questioned, between little sighs of pleasure— “Tell me! — are you sure?”

  “Am I not proving it?” he answered— “Does a man behave like this if he does not love?”

  “Ah, yes!” And she looked up with a wild piteousness in her sweet eyes— “A man will behave like this to any woman!”

  He loosened his clasp of her, astonished — then laughed.

  “Where did you learn that?” he asked— “Who told you men were so volatile?”

  “No one!” — and her caressing arms fell away from him— “My Amadis, you find it pleasant to kiss and to embrace me for the moment — but perhaps not always will you care! Love — real love is different—”

  “What do YOU mean by love?” he asked still smiling.

  She sighed.

  “I can hardly tell you,” she said— “But one thing I DO know — love would never hurt or wrong the thing it loved! Words, kisses, embraces — they are just the sweet outflow of a great deep! — but love is above and beyond all these, like an angel living with God!”

  He was silent.

  She came up to him and laid her little hand timidly on his arm.

  “It is time we were quite sure of that angel, my Amadis!” she said— “We

  ARE sure — but—”

  He looked her full and quietly in the eyes.

  “Yes, child!” he answered— “It is time! But I cannot talk about angels or anything else just now — it is growing late in the afternoon and you must not stay here too long. Come to-morrow or next day, and we’ll consult together as to what is best to be done for your happiness—”

  “For yours!” she interposed, gently.

  He smiled, curiously.

  “Very well! As you will! For mine!”

  CHAPTER X

  Lord Blythe stood at the open window of his sitting-room in the Grand Hotel at Bellaggio — a window opening out to a broad balcony and commanding one of the most enchanting views of the lake and mountains ever created by Divine Beneficence for the delight of man. The heavenly scene, warm with rich tints of morning in Italy, glowed like a jewel in the sun: picturesque boats with little red and blue awnings rocked at the edge of the calm lake, in charge of their bronzed and red-capped boatmen, waiting for hire, — the air was full of fragrance, and every visible thing appealed to beauty-loving eyes with exquisite and irresistible charm. His attention, however, had wandered far from the enjoyable prospect, — he was reading and re-reading a letter he had just received from Miss Leigh, in which certain passages occurred which caused him some uneasiness. On leaving England he had asked her to write regularly, giving him all the news of Innocent, and she had readily undertaken what to her was a pleasing duty. His thoughts were constantly with the little house in Kensington, where the young daughter of his dead friend worked so patiently to bring forth the fruits of her genius and live independently by their results, and his intense sympathy for the difficult position in which she had been placed through no fault of her own and the courage with which she had surmounted it, was fast deepening into affection. He rather encouraged this sentiment in himself with the latent hope that possibly when he returned to England she might still be persuaded to accept the position he was so ready to offer her — that of daughter to him and heiress, — and just now he was troubled by an evident anxiety which betrayed itself in Miss Leigh’s letter — anxiety which she plainly did her best to conceal, but which nevertheless made itself apparent.

  “The dear child works incessantly,” she wrote, “but she is very quiet and seems easily tired. She is not as bright as she used to be, and looks very pale, so that I fear she is doing too much, though she says she is perfectly well and happy. We had a call from Mr. John Harrington the other afternoon — I think you know him — and he seemed quite to think with me that she is over-working herself. He suggested that I should persuade her to go for a change somewhere, either with me or with other friends. I wonder if you would care for us to join you at the Italian Lakes? If you would I might be able to manage it. I have not mentioned the idea to her yet, as I know she is finishing some work — but she tells me it will all be done in a few days, and that then she will take a rest. I hope she will, for I’m sure she needs it.”

  Another part of the letter ran as follows: —

  “I rather hesitate to mention it, but I think so many prolonged sittings for her portrait to that painter with the strange name, Amadis de Jocelyn, have rather tired her out. The picture is finished now, and I and a few friends went to see it the other day. It is a most beautiful portrait, but very sad! — and it is wonderful how the likeness of her father as he was in his young days comes out in her face!
She and Mr. de Jocelyn are very intimate friends — and some people say he is in love with her! Perhaps he may be! — but I do hope she is not in love with HIM!”

  Lord Blythe took off his spectacles, folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. Then he looked out towards the lake and the charming picture it presented. How delightful it would be to see Innocent in one of those dainty boats scattered about near the water’s edge, revelling with all the keenness of a bright, imaginative temperament in the natural loveliness around her! Young, and with the promise of a brilliant career opening out before her, happiness seemed ready and waiting to bless and to adorn the life of the little deserted girl who, left alone in the world, had nevertheless managed to win the world’s hearing through the name she had made for herself — yet now — yes! — now there was the cruel suggestion of a shadow — an ugly darkness like a black cloud, blotting the fairness of a blue sky, — and Blythe felt an uncomfortable sense of premonition and wrong as the thought of Amadis de Jocelyn came into his head and stayed there. What was he that he should creep into the unspoiled sphere of a woman’s opening life? A painter, something of a genius in his line, but erratic and unstable in his character, — known more or less for several “affairs of gallantry” which had slipped off his easy conscience like water off a duck’s back, — not a highly cultured man by any means, because ignorant of many of the finer things in art and letters, and without any positively assured position. Yet, undoubtedly a man of strong physical magnetism and charm — fascinating in his manner, especially on first acquaintance, and capable of overthrowing many a stronger citadel than the tender heart of a sensitive girl like Innocent, who by a most curious mischance had been associated all her life with the romance of his medieval name and lineage.

  “Yes — of course she must come out here,” Blythe decided, after a few minutes’ cogitation. “I’ll send a wire to Miss Leigh this morning and follow it up by a letter to the child herself, urging her to join me. The change and distraction will perhaps save her from too much association with Jocelyn, — I do not trust that man — never have trusted him! Poor little girl! She shall not have her spirit broken if I can help it.”

  He stayed yet another few minutes at the open window, and taking out a cigar from his case began to light it. While doing this his eye was suddenly caught by the picturesque, well-knit figure of a man sitting easily on a step near the clustering boats gathered close to the hotel’s special landing place. He was apparently one of the many road-side artists one meets everywhere about the Italian Lakes, ready to paint a sunset or moonlight on Como or Maggiore on commission at short notice for a few francs. He was not young — his white hair and grizzled moustache marked the unpleasing passage of resistless time, — yet there was something lissom and graceful about him that suggested a kind of youth in age. His attire consisted of much worn brown trousers and a loose white shirt kept in place by a red belt, — his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, displaying thin brown muscular arms, expressive of energy, and he wore a battered brown hat which might once have been of the so-called “Homburg” shape, but which now resembled nothing ever seen in the way of ordinary head-gear. He was busily engaged in sketching a view of the lake and the opposite mountains, evidently to the order of some fashionably dressed women who stood near him watching the rapid and sure movements of his brush — he had his box of water-colours beside him, and smiled and talked as he worked. Lord Blythe watched him with lively interest, while enjoying the first whiffs of his lately lit cigar.

  “A clever chap, evidently!” he thought. “These Italians are all artists and poets at heart. When those women have finished with him I’ll get him to do a sketch for me to send to Innocent — just to show her the loveliness of the place. She’ll be delighted! and it may tempt her to come here.”

  He waited a few minutes longer, till he saw the artist hand over the completed drawing to his lady patrons, one of whom paid him with a handful of silver coin. Something in the bearing and attitude of the man as he rose from the step where he had been seated and lifted his shapeless brown hat to his customers in courteous acknowledgment of their favours as they left him, struck Blythe with an odd sense of familiarity.

  “I must have seen him somewhere before,” he thought. “In Venice, perhaps — or Florence — these fellows are like gipsies, they wander about everywhere.”

  He sauntered out of the Hotel into the garden and from the garden down to the landing-place, where he slowly approached the artist, who was standing with his back towards him, slipping his lately earned francs into his trouser pocket. Several sample drawings were set up in view beside him, — lovely little studies of lake and mountain which would have done honour to many a Royal Academician, and Blythe paused, looking at these with wonder and admiration before speaking, unaware that the artist had taken a backward glance at him of swift and more or less startled recognition.

  “You are an admirable painter, my friend!” he said, at last — speaking in Italian of which he was a master. “Your drawings are worth much more than you are asking for them. Will you do one specially for me?”

  “I’ve done a good many for you in my time, Blythe!” was the half-laughing answer, given in perfect English. “But I don’t mind doing another.”

  And he turned round, pushing his cap off his brows, and showing a wonderfully handsome face, worn with years and privation, but fine and noble-featured and full of the unquenchable light which is given by an indomitable and enduring spirit.

  Lord Blythe staggered back and caught at the handrail of the landing steps to save himself from falling.

  “My God!” he gasped. “You! You, of all men in the world! You! — you,

  Pierce Armitage!”

  And he stared wildly, his brain swimming, — his pulses beating hammer-strokes — was it — could it be possible? The artist in brown trousers and white shirt straightened himself, and instinctively sought to assume a less tramp-like appearance, looking at his former friend meanwhile with a half-glad, half-doubtful air.

  “Well, well, Dick!” he said, after a moment’s pause— “Don’t take it badly that you find me pursuing my profession in this peripatetic style! It’s a nice life — better than being a pavement artist in Pimlico! You mustn’t be afraid! I’m not going to claim acquaintance with you before the public eye — you, a peer of the realm, Dick! No, no! I won’t shame you…”

  “Shame me!” Blythe sprang forward and caught his hand in a close warm grip. “Never say that, Pierce! You know me better! Thank God you are here — alive! — thank God I have met you!—”

  He stopped, too overcome to say another word, and wrung the hand he held with unconscious fervour, tears springing to his eyes. The two looked full at each other, and Armitage smiled a little confusedly.

  “Why, Dick!” he began, — then turning his head quickly he glanced up at the clear blue sky to hide and to master his own emotion— “I believe we feel like a couple of sentimental undergrads still, Dick in spite of age and infirmities!”

  He laughed forcedly, while Blythe, at last releasing his hand, took him by the arm, regardless of the curious observation of some of the hotel guests who were strolling about the garden and terraces.

  “Come with me, Pierce,” he said, in hurried nervous accents— “I have news for you — such news as you cannot guess or imagine. Put away all those drawings and come inside the hotel — to my room—” “What? In this guise?” and Armitage shook his head— “My dear fellow, your enthusiasm is running away with you! Besides — there is some one else to consider—”

  “Some one else? Whom do you mean?” demanded Blythe with visible impatience.

  Armitage hesitated.

  “Your wife,” he said, at last.

  Blythe looked him steadily in the eyes.

  “My wife is dead.”

  “Dead!” Armitage loosened his arm from the other’s hold, and stood inert as though he had received a numbing blow. “Dead! When did she die?”

  In a few words
Blythe told him.

  Armitage heard in silence. Mechanically he began to collect his drawings and put them in a portfolio. His face was pale under its sun-browned tint, — his expression almost tragic. Lord Blythe watched him for a moment, moved by strong heart-beats of affection and compassion.

  “Pierce,” he then said, in a low tone— “I know everything!”

  Armitage turned on him sharply.

  “You — you know? — What? — How?—”

  “She — Maude — told me all,” said Blythe, gently— “And I think — your wrong to her — was not so blameworthy as her wrong to you! But I have something to tell you of one whose wrong is greater than hers or yours — one who is Innocent!”

  He emphasised the name, and Armitage started as though struck with a whip.

  “Innocent!” he muttered— “The child — yes! — but I couldn’t make enough to send money for it after a while — I paid as long as I could—”

  He trembled, — his fine eyes had a strained look of anguish in them.

  “Not dead too?” he said— “Surely not — the people at the farm had a good name — they would not be cruel to a child—”

  Blythe gripped him by the arm.

  “Come,” he said— “We cannot talk here — there are too many people about — I must have you to myself. Never mind your appearance — many an R. A. cuts a worse figure than you do for the sake of ‘pose’! You are entirely picturesque” — and he relieved his pent-up feelings by a laugh— “And there’s nothing strange in your coming to my room to see the particular view I want from my windows.”