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 her
e!”
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 m
ight 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.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 820
