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

by Marie Corelli

  Thus persuaded, Armitage gathered his drawings and painting materials together, and followed his friend, who quickly led the way into the Hotel. The gorgeously liveried hall-porter nodded familiarly to the artist, whom he had seen for several seasons selling his work on the landing, and made a good-natured comment on his “luck” in having secured the patronage of a rich English “Milor,” but otherwise little notice was taken of the incongruous couple as they passed up the stairs to “Milor’s” private rooms on the first floor, where, as soon as they entered, Blythe shut and locked the door.

  “Now, Pierce, I have you!” he said, affectionately taking him by the shoulders and pushing him towards a chair. “Why, in heaven’s name, did you never let me know you were alive? Everyone thought you were dead years and years ago!”

  Armitage sat down, and taking off his cap, passed his hand through his thick crop of silvery hair.

  “I spread that report myself,” he said. “I wanted to get out of it all — to give up! — to forget that such a place as London existed. I was sick to death of it! — of its conventions, and vile hypocrisies — its ‘bounders’ in art as in everything else! — besides, I should have been in the way — Maude was tired of me—”

  He broke off, with an abstracted look.

  “You know all about it, you say?” he went on after a pause— “She told you—”

  “She told me the night she died,” answered Blythe quietly— “After a silence of nearly twenty years!”

  Armitage gave a short, sharp sigh. “Women are strange creatures!” he said. “I don’t think they know when they are loved. I loved her — much more than she knew, — she seemed to me the most beautiful thing on earth! — and when she asked me to run away with her—”

  “She asked you?”

  “Yes — of course! Do you think I would have taken her against her own wish and will? She suggested and planned the whole thing — and I was mad for her at the time — even now those weeks we passed together seem to me the only real living of my life! I thought she loved me as I loved her — and if she had married me, as I begged her to do, I believe I should have done something as a painter, — something great, I mean. But she got tired of my ‘art-jargon,’ as she called it — and she couldn’t bear the idea of having to rough it a bit before I could hope to make any large amount of money. Then I was disappointed — and I told her so — and SHE was disappointed, and she told ME so — and we quarrelled — but when I heard a child was to be born, I urged her again to marry me—”

  “And she refused?” interposed Blythe.

  “She refused. She said she intended to make a rich marriage and live in luxury. And she declared that if I ever loved her at all, the only way to prove it was to get rid of the child. I don’t think she would have cared if I had been brute enough to kill it.”

  Blythe gave a gesture of horror.

  “Don’t say that, man! Don’t think it!”

  Armitage sighed.

  “Well, I can’t help it, Blythe! Some women go callous when they’ve had their fling. Maude was like that. She didn’t care for me any more, — she saw nothing in front of her but embarrassment and trouble if her affair with me was found out — and as it was all in my hands I did the best I could think of, — took the child away and placed it with kind country folks — and removed myself from England and out of Maude’s way altogether. The year after I came abroad I heard she had married you, — rather an unkind turn of fate, you being my oldest friend! and this was what made me resolve to ‘die’ — that is, to be reported dead, so that she might have no misgivings about me or my turning up unexpectedly to cause you any annoyance. I determined to lose myself and my name too — no one knows me here as Pierce Armitage, — I’m Pietro Corri for all the English amateur art-lovers in Italy!”

  He laughed rather bitterly.

  “I think I lost a good deal more than myself and my name!” he went on. “I believe if I had stayed in England I should have won something of a reputation. But — you see, I really loved Maude — in a stupid man’s way of love, — I didn’t want to worry her or remind her of her phase of youthful madness with me — or cause scandal to her in any way—”

  “But did you ever think of the child?” interrupted Blythe, suddenly.

  Armitage looked up.

  “Think of it? Of course I did! The place where I left it was called Briar Farm, — a wonderful old sixteenth-century house — I made a drawing of it once when the apple-blossom was out — and the owner of it, known as Farmer Jocelyn, had a wonderful reputation in the neighbourhood for integrity and kindness. I left the child with him — one stormy night in autumn — saying I would come back for it — of course I never did — but for twelve years I sent money for it from different places in Europe — and before I left England I told Maude where it was, in case she ever wanted to see it — not that such an idea would ever occur to her! I thought the probabilities were that the farmer, having no children of his own, would be likely to adopt the one left on his hands, and that she would grow up a happy, healthy country lass, without a care, and marry some good, sound, simple rustic fellow. But you know everything, I suppose! — or so your looks imply. Is the child alive?”

  Lord Blythe held up his hand.

  “Now, Pierce, it is my turn,” he said— “Your share in the story I already knew in part — but one thing you have not told me — one wrong you have not confessed.”

  “Oh, there are a thousand wrongs I have committed,” said Armitage, with a slight, weary gesture. “Life and love have both disappointed me — and I suppose when that sort of thing happens a man goes more or less to the dogs—”

  “Life and love have disappointed a good many folks,” said

  Blythe— “Women perhaps more than men. And one woman especially, who

  hardly merited disappointment — one who loved you very truly,

  Pierce! — have you any idea who it is I mean?”

  Armitage moved restlessly, — a slight flush coloured his face.

  “You mean Lavinia Leigh?” he said— “Yes — I behaved like a cad. I know it! But — I could not help myself. Maude drew me on with her lovely eyes and smile! And to think she is dead! — all that beauty in the grave! — cold and mouldering!” He covered his eyes with one hand, and a visible tremor shook him. “Somehow I have always fancied her as young as ever and endowed with a sort of earthly immortality! She was so bright, so imperious, so queen-like! You ask me why I did not let you know I was living? Blythe, I would have died in very truth by my own hand rather than trouble her peace in her married life with you!” He paused — then glanced up at his friend, with the wan flicker of a smile— “And — do you know Lavinia Leigh?”

  “I do,” answered Blythe— “I know and honour her! And — your daughter is with her now!”

  Armitage sprang up.

  “My daughter! With Lavinia! No! — impossible — incredible!—”

  “Sit down again, Pierce,” and Lord Blythe himself drew up a chair close to Armitage— “Sit down and be patient! You know the lines— ‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will’? Divinity has worked in strange ways with you, Pierce! — and still more strangely with your child. Will you listen while I tell you all?”

  Armitage sank into his chair, — his hands trembled — he was greatly agitated, — and his eyes were fixed on his friend’s face in an eager passion of appeal.

  “I will listen as if you were an angel speaking, Dick!” he said. “Let me know the worst! — or the best — of everything!”

  And Blythe, in a low quiet voice, thrilled in its every accent by the affection and sympathy of his honest spirit, told him the whole story of Innocent — of her sweetness and prettiness — of her grace and genius — of the sudden and brilliant fame she had won as “Ena Armitage” — of the brief and bitter knowledge she had been given of her mother — of her strange chance in going straight to the house of Miss Leigh when she travelled alone and unguided from the country
to London — and lastly of his own admiration for her courage and independence, and his desire to adopt her as a daughter in order to leave her his fortune.

  “But now you have turned up, Pierce, I resign my hopes in that direction!” he concluded, with a smile. “You are her father! — and you may well be proud of such a daughter! And there is a duty staring you in the face — a duty towards her which, when once performed, will release her from a good deal of pain and perplexity — you know what it is?”

  “Rather!” and Armitage rose and began pacing to and fro— “To acknowledge and legalise her as my child! I can do this now — and I will! I can declare she was born in wedlock, now Maude is dead — for no one will ever know. The real identity of her mother” — he paused and came up to Blythe, resting his hands on his shoulders— “the real identity of her mother is and shall ever be OUR secret!”

  There was a pause. Then Armitage’s mellow musical voice again broke the silence.

  “I can never thank you, Blythe!” he said— “You blessed old man as you are! You seem to me like a god disguised in a tweed suit! You have changed life for me altogether! I must cease to be a wandering scamp on the face of the earth! — I must try to be worthy of my fair and famous daughter! How strange it seems! Little Innocent! — the poor baby I left to the mercies of a farm-yard training! — for her I must become respectable! I think I’ll even try to paint a great picture, so that she isn’t ashamed of her Dad! What do you say? Will you help me?”

  He laughed, — but there were great tears in his eyes. They clasped hands silently.

  Then Lord Blythe spoke in a light tone.

  “I’ll wire to Miss Leigh this morning,” he said. “I’ll ask her to come out here with Innocent as soon as possible. I won’t break the news of YOU to them yet — it would quite overpower Miss Leigh — it might almost kill her—”

  “Why, how?” asked Armitage.

  “With joy!” answered Blythe. “Hers is a faithful soul!”

  He waited a moment — then went on:

  “I’ll prepare the way cautiously in a letter — it would never do to blurt the whole thing out at once. I’ll tell Innocent I have a very great and delightful surprise awaiting her—”

  “Oh, very great and delightful indeed!” echoed Armitage with a sad little laugh. “The discovery of a tramp father with only a couple of shirts to his back and a handful of francs in his pocket!”

  “My dear chap, what does that matter?” and Blythe gave him a light friendly blow on the shoulder. “We can put all these exterior matters right in no time. Trust me! — Are we not old friends? You have come back from death, as it seems, just when your child may need you — she DOES need you — every young girl needs some protector in this world, especially when her name has become famous, and a matter of public talk and curiosity. Ah! I can already see her joy when she throws her arms around your neck and says ‘My father!’ I would gladly change places with you for that one exquisite moment!”

  They stayed together all that day and night. Lord Blythe sent his wire to Miss Leigh, and wrote his letter, — then both men settled down, as it were, to wait. Armitage went off for two days to Milan, and returned transformed in dress, looking the very beau-ideal of an handsome Englishman, — and the people at Bellaggio who had known him as the wandering landscape painter “Pietro Corri” failed to recognise him now in his true self.

  “Yes,” said Blythe again, with the fine unselfishness which was part of his nature, when at the end of one of their many conversations concerning Innocent, he had gone over every detail he could think of which related to her life and literary success— “When she comes she will give you all her heart, Pierce! She will be proud and glad, — she will think of no one but her beloved father! She is like that! She is full of an unspent love — you will possess it all!”

  And in his honest joy for the joy of others, he never once thought of

  Amadis de Jocelyn.

  CHAPTER XI

  It was a gusty September afternoon in London, and autumn had given some unpleasing signs of its early presence in the yellow leaves that flew whirling over the grass in Kensington Gardens and other open spaces where trees spread their kind boughs to the rough and chilly wind. A pretty little elm in Miss Leigh’s tiny garden was clothed in gold instead of green, and shook its glittering foliage down with every breath of air like fairy coins minted from the sky. Innocent, leaning from her study window, watched the falling brightness with an unwilling sense of pain and foreboding.

  “Summer is over, I’m afraid!” she sighed— “Such a wonderful summer it has been for me! — the summer of my life — the summer of my love! Oh, dear summer, stay just a little longer!”

  And the verse of a song, sung so often as to have become hackneyed, rang in her ears —

  “Falling leaf and fading tree, Lines of white in a sullen sea, Shadows rising on you and me — The swallows are making them ready to fly, Wheeling out on a windy sky: Good-bye, Summer! Good-bye, good-bye!”

  She shivered, and closed the window. She was dressed for going out, and her little motor-brougham waited for her below. Miss Leigh had gone to lunch and to spend the afternoon with some old friends residing out of town, — an unusual and wonderful thing for her to do, as she seldom accepted invitations now where Innocent was not concerned, — but the people who had asked her were venerable folk who could not by the laws of nature be expected to live very much longer, and as they had known Lavinia Leigh from girlhood she considered it somewhat of a duty to go and see them when, as in this instance, they earnestly desired it. Moreover she knew Innocent had her own numerous engagements and was never concerned at being left alone — especially on this particular afternoon when she had an appointment with her publishers, — and another appointment afterwards, of which she said nothing, even to herself. She had taken more than usual pains with her attire, and looked her sweetest in a soft dove-coloured silk gown gathered about her slight figure in cunning folds of exquisite line and drapery, while the tender gold of her hair shone like ripening corn from under the curved brim of a graceful “picture” hat of black velvet, adorned with one drooping pale grey plume. A small knot of roses nestled among the delicate lace on her bodice, and the diamond dove-pendant Lord Blythe had given her sparkled like a frozen sunbeam against the ivory whiteness of her throat. She glanced at herself in the mirror with a smile, — wondering if “he” would be pleased with her appearance,— “he” had been what is called “difficult” of late, finding fault with some of the very points of her special way of dress which he had once eagerly admired. But she attributed his capricious humour to fatigue and irritability from “over-strain” — that convenient ailment which is now-a-days brought in as a disguise for mere want of control and bad temper. “He has been working so hard to finish his portrait of me!” she thought, tenderly— “Poor fellow! — he must have got quite tired of looking at my face!”

  She glanced round her study to see that everything was in order — and then took up a neatly tied parcel of manuscript — her third book — completed. She had a fancy — one of many, equally harmless, — that she would like to deliver it herself to the publishers rather than send it by post, on this day of all days, when plans for the future were to be discussed with her lover and everything settled for their mutual happiness. Her heart grew light with joyous anticipation as she ran downstairs and nodded smilingly at the maid Rachel, who stood ready at the door to open it for her passing.

  “If Miss Leigh comes home before I do, tell her I will not be long,” she said, as she stepped into her brougham and was whirled away. At the office of her publishers she was expected and received with eager homage. The head of the firm took the precious packet of manuscript from her hand with a smile of entire satisfaction.

  “You are up to your promised time, Miss Armitage!” he said, kindly— “And you must have worked very hard. I hope you’ll give yourself a good long rest now?”

  She laughed, lightly.

  “Oh, well
! — perhaps!” she answered— “If I feel I can afford it! I want to work while I’m young — not to rest. But I think Miss Leigh would like a change — and if she does I’ll take her wherever she wishes to go. She is so kind to me! — I can never do enough for her!”

  The publisher looked at her sweet, thoughtful face curiously.

  “Do you never think of yourself?” he asked— “Must you always plan some pleasure for others?”

  She glanced at him in quick surprise.

  “Why, of course!” she replied— “Pleasure for others is the only pleasure possible to me. I assure you I’m quite selfish! — I’m greedy for the happiness of those I love — and if they can’t or won’t be happy I’m perfectly miserable!”

  He smiled, — and when she left, escorted her himself out of his office to her brougham with a kind friendliness that touched her.

  “You won’t let me call you a brilliant author,” he said, as he shook hands with her— “Perhaps it will please you better if I say you are a true woman!”

  Her eyes flashed up a bright gratitude, — she waved her hand in parting — as the brougham glided off. And never to his dying day did that publisher and man of hard business detail forget the radiance of the face that smiled at him that afternoon, — a face of light and youth and loveliness, as full of hope and faith as the face of a pictured angel kneeling at the feet of the Madonna with heaven’s own glory encircling it in gold.

  The quick little motor-brougham seemed unusually slow-going that afternoon. Innocent, with her full happy heart and young pulsing blood, grew impatient with its tardy progress, yet, as a matter of fact, it travelled along at its most rapid speed. The well-known by-street near Holland Park was reached at last, and while the brougham went off to an accustomed retired corner chosen by the chauffeur to await her pleasure, she pushed open the gate of the small garden leading to the back entrance of Jocelyn’s studio — a garden now looking rather damp and dreary, strewn as it was with wet masses of fallen leaves. It was beginning to rain — and she ran swiftly along the path to the familiar door which she opened with her private key. Jocelyn was working at his easel — he heard the turn of the lock and looked round. She entered, smiling — but he did not at once go and meet her. He was finishing off some special touch of colour over which he bent with assiduous care, — and she was far too unselfishly interested in his work to disturb him at what seemed to be an anxious moment. So she waited.