Robin listened attentively. “Curious!” he murmured— “very curious! What was the lady’s name?”
“Lady Maude Blythe,” repeated Priscilla, slowly.
He took out a note-book and pencil, and wrote it down.
“You don’t think she came to engage Innocent for some service?” he asked. “Or that Innocent herself had perhaps written to an agency asking for a place, and that this lady had come to see her in consequence?”
Such an idea had never occurred to Priscilla’s mind, but now it was suggested to her it seemed more than likely.
“It might be so,” she answered, slowly. “But I can’t bear to think the child was playin’ a part an’ tellin’ me things that weren’t true just to get away from us. No! Mister Robin! I don’t believe that lady had anything to do with her going.”
“Well, I shall keep the name by me,” he said. “And I shall find out where the lady lives, who she is and all about her. For if I don’t hear from Innocent, if she doesn’t write to us, I’ll search the whole world and never rest till I find her!”
Priscilla looked at him, pityingly, tears springing again to her eyes.
“Aye, you’ve lost the love o’ your heart, my lad! I know that well enough!” she said. “An’ it’s mighty hard on you! But you must be a man an’ turn to work as though nowt had happened. There’s the farm—”
“Yes, there’s the farm,” he repeated, absently. “But what do I care for the farm without her! Priscilla, YOU will stay with me?”
“Stay with you? Surely I will, Mister Robin! Where should an old woman like me go to at this time o’ day!” and Priscilla took his hand and clasped it affectionately. “Don’t you fear! My place is in Briar Farm till the Lord makes an end of me! And if the child comes back at any hour of the day or night, she’ll find old Priscilla ready to welcome her, — ready an’ glad an’ thankful to see her pretty face again.”
Here, unable to control her sobs, she turned away and made a hasty retreat into the kitchen.
He did not follow her, but acting on the sudden impulse of his mind he entered the house and went up to Innocent’s deserted room. He opened the door hesitatingly, — the little study, in its severe simplicity and neatness, looked desolate — like an empty shrine from which the worshipped figure had been taken. He trod softly across the floor, hushing his footsteps, as though some one slept whom he feared to wake, and his eyes wandered from one familiar object to another till they rested on the shelves where the old vellum-bound books, which Innocent had loved and studied so much, were ranged in orderly rows. Taking one or two of them out he glanced at their title-pages; — he knew that most of them were rare and curious, though his Oxford training had not impressed him with as great a love of things literary as it might or should have done. But he realised that these strange black-letter and manuscript volumes were of unique value, and that their contents, so difficult to decipher, were responsible for the formation of Innocent’s guileless and romantic spirit, colouring her outlook on life with a glamour of rainbow brilliancy which, though beautiful, was unreal. One quaint little book he opened had for its title— “Ye Whole Art of Love, Setting Forth ye Noble Manner of Noble Knights who woulde serve their Ladies Faithfullie in Death as in Lyfe” — this bore the date of 1590. He sighed as he put it back in its place.
“Ah, well,” he said, half aloud, “these books are hers, and I’ll keep them for her — but I believe they’ve done her a lot of mischief, and I don’t love them! They’ve made her see the world as it is not — and life as it never will be! And she has got strange fancies into her head — fancies which she will run after like a child chasing pretty butterflies — and when the butterflies are caught, they die, much to the child’s surprise and sorrow! My poor little Innocent! She has gone out alone into the world, and the world will break her heart! Oh dearest little love, come back to me!”
He sat down in her vacant chair and covered his face with his hands, giving himself up to the relief of unwitnessed tears. Above his head shone the worn glitter of the old armoured device of the “Sieur Amadis” with its motto— “Mon coeur me soutien” — and only a psychist could have thought or imagined it possible that the spirit of the old French knight of Tudor times might still be working through clouds of circumstance and weaving the web of the future from the torn threads of the past. And when Robin had regained his self-possession and had left the room, there was yet a Presence in its very emptiness, — the silent assertion of an influence which if it had been given voice and speech might have said— “Do what you consider is your own will and intention, but I am still your Master! — and all your thoughts and wishes are but the reflex of MY desire!”
It was soon known in the village that Innocent had left Briar Farm— “run away,” the gossips said, eager to learn more. But they could get no information out of Robin Clifford or Priscilla Priday, and the labourers on the farm knew nothing. The farm work was going on as usual — that was all they cared about. Mr. Clifford was very silent — Miss Priday very busy. However, all anxiety and suspense came to an end very speedily so far as Innocent’s safety was concerned, for in a few days letters arrived from her — both for Robin and Priscilla — kind, sweetly-expressed letters full of the tenderest affection.
“Do not be at all sorry or worried about me, dear good Priscilla!” she wrote. “I know I am doing right to be away from Briar Farm for a time — and I am quite well and happy. I have been very fortunate in finding rooms with a lady who is very kind to me, and as soon as I feel I can do so I will let you know my address. But I don’t want anyone from home to come and see me — not yet! — not for a very long time! It would only make me sad — and it would make you sad too! But be quite sure it will not be long before you see me again.”
Her letter to Robin was longer and full of restrained feeling:
“I know you are very unhappy, you kind, loving boy,” it ran. “You have lost me altogether — yes, that is true — but do not mind, it is better so, and you will love some other girl much more than me some day. I should have been a mistake in your life had I stayed with you. You will see me again — and you will then understand why I left Briar Farm. I could not wrong the memory of the Sieur Amadis, and if I married you I should be doing a wicked thing to bring myself, who am base-born, into his lineage. Surely you do understand how I feel? I am quite safe — in a good home, with a lady who takes care of me — and as soon as I can I will let you know exactly where I am — then if you ever come to London I will see you. But your work is on Briar Farm — that dear and beloved home! — and you will keep up its old tradition and make everybody happy around you. Will you not? Yes! I am sure you will! You MUST, if ever you loved me. “INNOCENT.”
With this letter his last hope died within him. She would never be his — never, never! Some dim future beckoned her in which he had no part — and he confronted the fact as a brave soldier fronts the guns, with grim endurance, aware, yet not afraid of death.
“If ever I loved her!” he thought. “If ever I cease to love her then I shall be as stone-cold a man as her fetish of a French knight, the Sieur Amadis! Ah, my little Innocent, in time to come you may understand what love is — perhaps to your sorrow! — you may need a strong defender — and I shall be ready! Sooner or later — now or years hence — if you call me, I shall answer. I would find strength to rise from my death-bed and go to you if you wanted me! For I love you, my little love! I love you, and nothing can change me. Only once in a life-time can a man love any woman as I love you!”
And with a deep vow of fidelity sworn to his secret soul he sat alone, watching the shadows of evening steal over the landscape — falling, falling slowly, like a gradually descending curtain upon all visible things, till Briar Farm stood spectral in the gloom like the ghost of its own departed days, and lights twinkled in the lattice windows like little eyes glittering in the dark. Then silently bidding farewell to all his former dreams of happiness, he set himself to face “the burden and heat of the day�
�� — that long, long day of life so difficult to live, when deprived of love!
BOOK TWO: HIS FACT
CHAPTER I
In London, the greatest metropolis of the world, the smallest affairs are often discussed with more keenness than things of national importance, — and it is by no means uncommon to find society more interested in the doings of some particular man or woman than in the latest and most money-milking scheme of Government finance. In this way it happened that about a year after Innocent had, like a small boat in a storm, broken loose from her moorings and drifted out to the wide sea, everybody who was anybody became suddenly thrilled with curiosity concerning the unknown personality of an Author. There are so many Authors nowadays that it is difficult to get up even a show of interest in one of them, — everybody “writes” — from Miladi in Belgravia, who considers the story of her social experiences, expressed in questionable grammar, quite equal to the finest literature, down to the stable-boy who essays a “prize” shocker for a penny dreadful. But this latest aspirant to literary fame had two magnetic qualities which seldom fail to arouse the jaded spirit of the reading public, — novelty and mystery, united to that scarce and seldom recognised power called genius. He or she had produced a Book. Not an ephemeral piece of fiction, — not a “Wells” effort of imagination under hydraulic pressure — not an hysterical outburst of sensual desire and disappointment such as moves the souls of demimondaines and dressmakers, — not even a “detective” sensation — but just a Book — a real Book, likely to live as long as literature itself. It was something in the nature of a marvel, said those who knew what they were talking about, that such a book should have been written at all in these modern days. The “style” of it was exquisite and scholarly — quaint, expressive, and all-sufficing in its artistic simplicity, — thoughts true for all time were presented afresh with an admirable point and delicacy that made them seem new and singularly imperative, — and the story which, like a silken thread, held all the choice jewels of language together in even and brilliant order, was pure and idyllic, — warm with a penetrating romance, yet most sincerely human. When this extraordinary piece of work was published, it slipped from the press in quite a modest way without much preliminary announcement, and for two or three weeks after its appearance nobody knew anything about it. The publishers themselves were evidently in doubt as to its reception, and signified their caution by economy in the way of advertisement — it was not placarded in the newspaper columns as “A Book of the Century” or “A New Literary Event.” It simply glided into the crowd of books without noise or the notice of reviewers — just one of a pushing, scrambling, shouting multitude, — and quite suddenly found itself the centre of the throng with all eyes upon it, and all tongues questioning the how, when and where of its author. No one could say how it first began to be thus busily talked about, — the critics had bestowed upon it nothing of either their praise or blame, — yet somehow the ball had been set rolling, and it gathered size and force as it rolled, till at last the publishers woke up to the fact that they had, by merest chance, hit upon a “paying concern.” They at once assisted in the general chorus of delight and admiration, taking wider space in the advertisement columns of the press for the “work of genius” which had inadvertently fallen into their hands — but when it came to answering the questions put to them respecting its writer they had very little to say, being themselves more or less in the dark.
“The manuscript was sent to us in the usual way,” the head of the firm explained to John Harrington, one of the soundest and most influential of journalists, “just on chance, — it was neither introduced nor recommended. One of our readers was immensely taken with it and advised us to accept it. The author gave no name, and merely requested all communications to be made through his secretary, a Miss Armitage, as he wished for the time being to remain anonymous. We drew up an Agreement on these lines which was signed for the author by Miss Armitage, — she also corrected and passed the proofs—”
“Perhaps she also wrote the book,” interrupted Harrington, with an amused twinkle in his eyes— “I suppose such a solution of the mystery has not occurred to you?”
The publisher smiled. “Under different circumstances it might have done so,” he replied, “but we have seen Miss Armitage several times — she is quite a young girl, not at all of the ‘literary’ type, though she is very careful and accurate in her secretarial work — I mean as regards business letters and attention to detail. But at her age she could not have had the scholarship to produce such a book. The author shows a close familiarity with sixteenth-century literature such as could only be gained by a student of the style of that period, — Miss Armitage has nothing of the ‘book-worm’ about her — she is quite a simple young person — more like a bright school-girl than anything else—”
“Where does she live?” asked Harrington, abruptly.
The publisher looked up the address and gave it.
“There it is,” he said; “if you want to write to the author she will forward any letters to him.”
Harrington stared at the pencilled direction for a moment in silence. He remembered it — of course he remembered it! — it was the very address given to the driver of the taxi-cab in which the girl with whom he had travelled to London more than a year ago had gone, as it seemed, out of his sight. Every little incident connected with her came freshly back to his mind — how she had spoken of the books she loved in “old French” and “Elizabethan English” — and how she had said she knew the way to earn her own living. If this was the way — if she was indeed the author of the book which had stirred and wakened the drowsing soul of the age, then she had not ventured in vain!
Aloud he said:
“It seems to be another case of the ‘Author of Waverley’ and the ‘Great Unknown’! I suppose you’ll take anything else you can get by the same hand?”
“Rather!” And the publisher nodded emphatically— “We have already secured a second work.”
“Through Miss Armitage?”
“Yes. Through Miss Armitage.”
Harrington laughed.
“I believe you’re all blinder than bats!” he said— “Why on earth you should think that because a woman looks like a school-girl she cannot write a clever book if gifted that way, is a condition of non-intelligence I fail to fathom! You speak of this author as a ‘he.’ Do you think only a male creature can produce a work of genius? Look at the twaddle men turn out every day in the form of novels alone! Many of them are worse than the worst weak fiction by women. I tell you I’ve lived long enough to know that a woman’s brain can beat a man’s if she cares to test it, so long as she does not fall in love. When once that disaster happens it’s all over with her! It’s the one drawback to a woman’s career; if she would only keep clear of love and self-sacrifice she’d do wonders! Men never allow love to interfere with so much as their own smoke — very few among them would sacrifice a good cigar for a woman! As for this girl, Miss Armitage, I’ll pluck out the heart of her mystery for you! I suppose you won’t pay any less for good work if it turns out to be by a ‘she’ instead of a ‘he’?”
The publisher was amused.
“Certainly not!” he answered. “We have already paid over a thousand pounds in royalties on the present book, and we have agreed to give two thousand in advance on the next. The author has expressed himself as perfectly satisfied—”
“Through Miss Armitage?” put in Harrington.
“Yes. Through Miss Armitage.”
“Well!” And Harrington turned to go— “I hope Miss Armitage will also express herself as perfectly satisfied after I have seen her! I shall write and ask permission to call—”
“Surely” — and the publisher looked distressed— “surely you do not intend to trouble this poor girl by questions concerning her employer? It’s hardly fair to her! — and of course it’s only your way of joking, but your idea that she wrote the book we’re all talking about is simply absurd! She couldn’t
do it! When you see her, you’ll understand.”
“I daresay I shall!” And Harrington smiled-”Don’t you worry! I’m too old a hand to get myself or anybody else into trouble! But I’ll wager you anything that your simple school-girl is the author!”
He went back then and there to the office of his big newspaper and wrote a guarded little note as follows: —
“DEAR MISS ARMITAGE,
I wonder if you remember a grumpy old fellow who travelled with you on your first journey to London rather more than a year ago? You never told me your name, but I kept a note of the address you gave through me to your taxi-driver, and through that address I have just by chance heard that you and the Miss Armitage who corrected the proofs of a wonderful book recently published are one and the same person. May I call and see you? Yours sincerely,
JOHN HARRINGTON.”
He waited impatiently for the answer, but none came for several days.
At last he received a simple and courteous “put off,” thus expressed: —
“DEAR MR. HARRINGTON,
I remember you very well — you were most kind, and I am grateful for your thought of me. But I hope you will not think me rude if I ask you not to call. I am living as a paying guest with an old lady whose health is not very strong and who does not like me to receive visitors, and you can understand that I try not to inconvenience her in any way. I do hope you are well and successful.
Yours sincerely,
ENA ARMITAGE.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 815
