CHAPTER XII

To be whirled along through the crowded streets of London in a taxi-cab

for the first time in one's life must needs be a somewhat

disconcerting, even alarming experience, and Innocent was the poor

little prey of so many nervous fears during her journey to Kensington

in this fashion, that she could think of nothing and realise nothing

except that at any moment it seemed likely she would be killed. With

wide-open, terrified eyes, she watched the huge motor-omnibuses almost

bearing down upon the vehicle in which she sat, and shivered at the

narrow margin of space the driver seemed to allow for any sort of

escape from instant collision and utter disaster. She only began to

breathe naturally again when, turning away out of the greater press of

traffic, the cab began to run at a smoother and less noisy pace, till

presently, in less time than she could have imagined possible, it drew

up at a modestly retreating little door under an arched porch in a

quiet little square, where there were some brave and pretty trees doing

their best to be green, despite London soot and smoke. Innocent stepped

out, and seeing a bell-handle pulled it timidly. The summons was

answered by a very neat maid-servant, who looked at her in primly

polite enquiry.

"Is Mrs.--or Miss 'Lavinia' at home?" she murmured. "I saw her

advertisement in the 'Morning Post.'"

The servant's face changed from primness to propitiation.

"Oh yes, miss! Please step in! I'll tell Miss Leigh."

"Thank you. I'll pay the driver."

She thereupon paid for the cab and dismissed it, and then followed the

maid into a very small but prettily arranged hall, and from thence into

a charming little drawing-room, with French windows set open, showing a

tiny garden beyond--a little green lawn, smooth as velvet, and a few

miniature flower-beds gay with well-kept blossoms.

"Would you please take a seat, miss?" and the maid placed a chair.

"Miss Leigh is upstairs, but she'll be down directly."

She left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Innocent sat still, satchel in hand, looking wistfully about her. The

room appealed to her taste in its extreme simplicity--and it

instinctively suggested to her mind resigned poverty making the best of

itself. There were one or two old miniatures on little velvet stands

set on the mantelpiece--these were beautiful, and of value; some

engravings of famous pictures adorned the walls, all well chosen; the

quaint china bowl on the centre table was full of roses carefully

arranged--and there was a very ancient harpsichord in one corner which

apparently served only as a stand for the portrait of a man's

strikingly handsome face, near which was placed a vase containing a

stem of Madonna lilies. Innocent found herself looking at this portrait

now and again--there was something familiar in its expression which had

a curious fascination for her. But her thoughts revolved chiefly round

a difficulty which had just presented itself--she had no real name.

What name could she take to be known by for the moment? She would not

call herself "Jocelyn"--she felt she had no right to do so. "Ena" might

pass muster for an abbreviation of "Innocent"--she decided to make use

of that as a Christian name--but a surname that would be appropriately

fitted to her ultimate intentions she could not at once select. Then

she suddenly thought of the man who had been her father and had brought

her as a helpless babe to Briar Farm. Pierce Armitage was his name--and

he was dead. Surely she might call herself Armitage? While she was

still puzzling her mind over the question the door opened and a little

old lady entered--a soft-eyed, pale, pretty old lady, as dainty and

delicate as the fairy-godmother of a child's dream, with white hair

bunched on either side of her face, and a wistful, rather plaintive

expression of mingled hope and enquiry.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," she began--then paused in a kind of

embarrassment. The two looked at each other. Innocent spoke, a little

shyly:

"I saw your advertisement in the 'Morning Post,'" she said, "and I

thought perhaps--I thought that I might come to you as a paying guest.

I have to live in London, and I shall be very busy studying all day, so

I should not give you much trouble."

"Pray do not mention it!" said the old lady, with a quaint air of

old-fashioned courtesy. "Trouble would not be considered! But you are a

much younger person than I expected or wished to accommodate."

"You said in the advertisement that it would be suitable for a person

studying art, or for a scholarship," put in Innocent, quickly. "And I

am studying for literature."

"Are you indeed?" and the old lady waved a little hand in courteous

deprecation of all unnecessary explanation--a hand which Innocent

noticed had a delicate lace mitten on it and one or two sparkling

rings. "Well, let us sit down together and talk it over. I have two

spare rooms--a bedroom and a sitting-room--they are small but very

comfortable, and for these I have been told I should ask three guineas

a week, including board. I feel it a little difficult"--and the old

lady heaved a sigh--"I have never done this kind of thing before--I

don't know what my poor father, Major Leigh, would have said--he was a

very proud man--very proud--!"

While she thus talked, Innocent had been making a rapid calculation in

her own mind. Three guineas a week! It was more than she had meant to

pay, but she was instinctively wise enough to realise the advantage of

safety and shelter in this charming little home of one who was

evidently a lady, gentle, kindly, and well-mannered. She had plenty of

money to go on with--and in the future she hoped to make more. So she

spoke out bravely.

"I will pay the three guineas a week gladly," she said. "May I see the

rooms?"

The old lady meanwhile had been studying her with great intentness, and

now asked abruptly--

"Are you an English girl?"

Innocent flushed a sudden rosy red.

"Yes. I was brought up in the country, but all my people are dead now.

I have no friends, but I have a little money left to me--and for the

rest--I must earn my own living."

"Well, my dear, that won't hurt you!" and an encouraging smile

brightened Miss Leigh's pleasantly wrinkled face. "You shall see the

rooms. But you have not told me your name yet."

Again Innocent blushed.

"My name is Armitage," she said, in a low, hesitating tone--"Ena

Armitage."

"Armitage!"--Miss Leigh repeated the name with a kind of wondering

accent--"Armitage? Are you any relative of the painter, Pierce

Armitage?"

The girl's heart beat quickly--for a moment the little drawing-room

seemed to whirl round her--then she collected her forces with a strong

effort and answered--"No!"

The old lady's wistful blue eyes, dimmed with age, yet retaining a

beautiful tenderness of expression, rested upon her anxiously.

"You are quite sure?"

Repressing the feeling that prompted her to cry out--"He was my

father!" she replied--

"I am quite sure!"

Lavinia Leigh raised her little mittened hand and pointed to the

portrait standing on the harpsichord:

"That was Pierce Armitage!" she said. "He was a dear friend of

mine"--her voice trembled a little--"and I should have been glad if you

had been in any way connected with him."

As she spoke Innocent turned and looked steadily at the portrait, and

it seemed to her excited fancy that its eyes gave her glance for

glance. She could hardly breathe--the threatening tears half choked

her. What strange fate was it, she thought, that had led her to a house

where she looked upon her own father's likeness for the first time!

"He was a very fine man," continued Miss Leigh in the same

half-tremulous voice--"very gifted--very clever! He would have been a

great artist, I think--"

"Is he dead?" the girl asked, quietly.

"Yes--I--I think so--he died abroad--so they say, but I have never

quite believed it--I don't know why! Come, let me show you the rooms. I

am glad your name is Armitage."

She led the way, walking slowly,--Innocent followed like one in a

dream. They ascended a small staircase, softly carpeted, to a square

landing, and here Miss Leigh opened a door.

"This is the sitting-room," she said. "You see, it has a nice

bow-window with a view of the garden. The bedroom is just beyond

it--both lead into one another."

Innocent looked in and could not resist giving a little exclamation of

pleasure. Everything was so clean and dainty and well kept--it seemed

to her a perfect haven of rest and shelter. She turned to Miss Leigh in

eager impulsiveness.

"Oh, please let me stay!" she said. "Now, at once! I have only just

arrived in London and this is the first place I have seen. It seems

so--so fortunate that you should have had a friend named Armitage!

Perhaps--perhaps I may be a friend too!"

A curious tremor seemed to pass over the old lady as though she

shivered in a cold wind. She laid one hand gently on the girl's arm.

"You may, indeed!" she said. "One never can tell what may happen in

this strange world! But we have to be practical--and I am very poor and

pressed for money. I do not know you--and of course I should expect

references from some respectable person who can tell me who you are and

all about you."

Innocent grew pale. She gave a little expressive gesture of utter

hopelessness.

"I cannot give you any references," she said--"I am quite alone in the

world--my people are dead--you see I am in mourning. The last friend I

had died a little while ago and left me four hundred pounds in

bank-notes. I have them here"--and she touched her breast--"and if you

like I will give you one of them in advance payment for the rooms and

board at once."

The old lady heaved a quick sharp sigh. One hundred pounds! It would

relieve her of a weight of pressing difficulty--and yet--! She paused,

considering.

"No, my child!" she said, quietly. "I would not on any account take so

much money from you. If you wish to stay, and if I must omit references

and take you on trust--which I am quite willing to do!"--and she

smiled, gravely--"I will accept two months' rent in advance if you

think you can spare this--can you?"

"Yes--oh, yes!" the girl exclaimed, impulsively. "If only I may

stay--now!"

"You may certainly stay now," and Miss Leigh rang a bell to summon the

neat maid-servant. "Rachel, the rooms are let to this young lady, Miss

Armitage. Will you prepare the bedroom and help her unpack her things?"

Then, turning round to Innocent, she said kindly,--"You will of course

take your meals with me at my table--I keep very regular hours, and if

for any cause you have to be absent, I should wish to know beforehand."

Innocent said nothing;--her eyes were full of tears, but she took the

old lady's little hand and kissed it. They went down together again to

the drawing-room, Innocent just pausing to tell the maid Rachel that

she would prefer to unpack and arrange the contents of her satchel--all

her luggage,--herself; and in a very few minutes the whole business was

settled. Eager to prove her good faith to the gentle lady who had so

readily trusted her, she drew from her bosom the envelope containing

the bank-notes left to her by Hugo Jocelyn, and, unfolding all four,

she spread them out on the table.

"You see," she said, "this is my little fortune! Please change one of

them and take the two months' rent and anything more you want--please

do!"

A faint colour flushed Miss Leigh's pale cheeks.

"No, my dear, no!" she answered. "You must not tempt me! I will take

exactly the two months' rent and no more; but I think you ought not to

carry this money about with you--you should put it in a bank. We'll

talk of this afterwards--but go and lock it up somewhere now--there's a

little desk in your room you could use--but a bank would be safest.

After dinner this evening I'll tell you what I think you ought to

do--you are so very young!"--and she smiled--"such a young little

thing! I shall have to look after you and play chaperone!"

Innocent looked up with a sweet confidence in her eyes.

"That will be kind of you!" she said, and leaving the one bank-note of

a hundred pounds on the table, she folded up the other three in their

original envelope and returned them to their secret place of safety.

"In a little while I will tell you a great deal about myself--and I do

hope I shall please you! I will not give any trouble, and I'll try to

be useful in the house if you'll let me. I can cook and sew and do all

sorts of things!"

"Can you, indeed!" and Miss Leigh laughed good-naturedly. "And what

about studying for literature?"

"Ah!--that of course comes first!" she said. "But I shall do all my

writing in the mornings--in the afternoons I can help you as much as

you like."

"My dear, your time must be your own," said Miss Leigh, decisively.

"You have paid for your accommodation, and you must have perfect

liberty to do as you like, as long as you keep to my regular hours for

meals and bed-time. I think we shall get on well together,--and I hope

we shall be good friends!"

As she spoke she bent forward and on a sudden impulse drew the girl to

her and kissed her. Poor lonely Innocent thrilled through all her being

to the touch of instinctive tenderness, and her heart beat quickly as

she saw the portrait on the harpsichord--her father's pictured

face--apparently looking at her with a smile.

"Oh, you are very good to me!" she murmured, with a little sob in her

breath, as she returned the gentle old lady's kiss. "I feel as if I had

known you for years! Did you know him"--and she pointed to the

portrait--"very long?"

Miss Leigh's eyes grew bright and tender.

"Yes!" she answered. "We were boy and girl together--and once--once we

were very fond of each other. Perhaps I will tell you the story some

day! Now go up to your rooms and arrange everything as you like, and

rest a little. Would you like some tea? Anything to eat?"

Poor Innocent, who had left Briar Farm at dawn without any thought of

food, and had travelled to London almost unconscious of either hunger

or fatigue, was beginning to feel the lack of nourishment, and she

gratefully accepted the suggestion.

"I lunch at two o'clock," continued Miss Leigh. "But it's only a little

past twelve now, and if you have come a long way from the country you

must be tired. I'll send Rachel up to you with some tea."

She went to give the order, and Innocent, left to herself for a moment,

moved softly up to her father's picture and gazed upon it with all her

soul in her eyes. It was a wonderful face--a face expressive of the

highest thought and intelligence--the face of a thinker or a poet,

though the finely moulded mouth and chin had nothing of the weakness

which sometimes marks a mere dreamer of dreams. Timidly glancing about

her to make sure she was not observed, she kissed the portrait, the

cold glass which covered it meeting her warm caressing lips with a

repelling chill. He was dead--this father whom she could never

claim!--dead as Hugo Jocelyn, who had taken that father's place in her

life. She might love the ghost of him if her fancy led her that way, as

she loved the ghost of the "Sieur Amadis"--but there was nothing else

to love! She was alone in the world, with neither father nor "knight of

old" to protect or defend her, and on herself alone depended her

future. She turned away and left the room, looking a fragile, sad,

unobtrusive little creature, with nothing about her to suggest either

beauty or power. Yet the mind in that delicate body had a strength of

which she was unconscious, and she was already bending it instinctively

and intellectually like a bow ready for the first shot--with an arrow

which was destined to go straight to its mark.

Meanwhile on Briar Farm there had fallen a cloud of utter desolation.

The day was fair and brilliant with summer sunshine, the birds sang,

the roses bloomed, the doves flew to and fro on the gabled roof, and

Innocent's pet "Cupid" waited in vain on the corner of her window-sill

for the usual summons that called it to her hand,--but a strange

darkness and silence like a whelming wave submerged the very light from

the eyes of those who suddenly found themselves deprived of a beloved

presence--a personality unobtrusively sweet, which had bestowed on the

old house a charm and grace far greater than had been fully recognised.

The "base-born" Innocent, nameless, and unbaptised, and therefore

shadowed by the stupid scandal of commonplace convention, had given the

"home" its homelike quality--her pretty idealistic fancies about the

old sixteenth-century knight "Sieur Amadis" had invested the place with

a touch of romance and poetry which it would hardly have possessed

with-out her--her gentle ways, her care of the flowers and the animals,

and the never-wearying delight she had taken in the household

affairs--all her part in the daily life of the farm had been as

necessary to happiness as the mastership of Hugo Jocelyn himself--and

without her nothing seemed the same. Poor Priscilla went about her

work, crying silently, and Robin Clifford paced restlessly up and down

the smooth grass in front of the old house with Innocent's farewell

letter in his hand, reading it again and again. He had returned early

from the market town where he had stayed the night, eager to explain to

her all the details of the business he had gone through with the lawyer

to whom his Uncle Hugo had entrusted his affairs, and to tell her how

admirably everything had been arranged for the prosperous continuance

of Briar Farm on the old traditional methods of labour by which it had

always been worked to advantage. Hugo Jocelyn had indeed shown plenty

of sound wisdom and foresight in all his plans save one--and that one

was his fixed idea of Innocent's marriage with his nephew. It had

evidently never occurred to him that a girl could have a will of her

own in such a momentous affair--much less that she could or would be so

unwise as to refuse a good husband and a settled home when both were at

hand for her acceptance. Robin himself, despite her rejection of him,

had still hoped and believed that when the first shock of his uncle's

death had lessened, he might by patience and unwearying tenderness move

her heart to softer yielding, and he had meant to plead his cause with

her for the sake of the famous old house itself, so that she might

become its mistress and help him to prove a worthy descendant of its

long line of owners. But now! All hope was at an end--she had taken the

law into her own hands and gone--no one knew whither. Priscilla was the

last who had seen her--Priscilla could only explain, with many tears,

that when she had gone to call her to breakfast she had found her room

vacant, her bed unslept in, and the letter for Robin on the table--and

that letter disclosed little or nothing of her intentions.

"Oh, the poor child!" Priscilla said, sobbingly. "All alone in a hard

world, with her strange little fancies, and no one to take care of her!

Oh, Mr. Robin, whatever are we to do!"

"Nothing!" and Robin's handsome face was pale and set. "We can only

wait to hear from her--she will not keep us long in anxiety--she has

too much heart for that. After all, it is MY fault, Priscilla! I tried

to persuade her to marry me against her will--I should have let her

alone."

Sudden boyish tears sprang to his eyes--he dashed them away in

self-contempt.

"I'm a regular coward, you see," he said. "I could cry like a baby--not

for myself so much, but to think of her running away from Briar Farm

out into the wide world all alone! Little Innocent! She was safe

here--and if she had wished it, _I_ would have gone away--I would have

made HER the owner of the farm, and left her in peace to enjoy it and

to marry any other man she fancied. But she wouldn't listen to any plan

for her own happiness since she knew she was not my uncle's

daughter--that is what has changed her! I wish she had never known!"

"Ay, so do I!" agreed Priscilla, dolefully. "But she's got the

fancifullest notions! All about that old stone knight in the

garden--an' what wi' the things he's left carved all over the wall of

the room where she read them queer old books, she's fair 'mazed with

ideas that don't belong to the ways o' the world at all. I can't think

what'll become o' the child. Won't there be any means of findin' out

where she's gone?"

"I'm afraid not!" answered Robin, sadly. "We muse trust to her

remembrance of us, Priscilla, and her thoughts of the old home where

she was loved and cared for." His voice shook. "It will be a dreary

place without her! We shall miss her every minute, every hour of the

day! I cannot fancy what the garden will look like without her little

white figure flitting over the grass, and her sweet fair face smiling

among the roses! Hang it all, Priscilla, if it were not for the last

wishes of my Uncle Hugo I'd throw the whole thing up and go abroad!"

"Don't do that, Mister Robin!"--and Priscilla laid her rough work-worn

hand on his arm--"Don't do it! It's turning your back on duty to give

up the work entrusted to you by a dead man. You know it is! An' the

child may come back any day! I shouldn't wonder if she got frightened

at being alone and ran home again to-morrow! Think of it, Mister Robin!

Suppose she came an' you weren't here? Why, you'd never forgive

yourself! I can't think she's gone far or that she'll stay away long.

Her heart's in Briar Farm all the while--I'd swear to that! Why, only

yesterday when a fine lady came to see if she couldn't buy something

out o' the house, you should just a' seen her toss her pretty little

head when she told me how she'd said it wasn't to be sold."

"Lady? What lady?" and Robin looked, as he felt, bewildered by

Priscilla's vague statement. "Did someone come here to see the house?"

"Not exactly--I don't know what it was all about," replied Priscilla.

"But quite a grand lady called an' gave me her card. I saw the name on

it--'Lady Maude Blythe'--and she asked to see 'Miss Jocelyn' on

business. I asked if it was anything I could do, and she said no. So I

called the child in from the garden, and she and the lady had quite a

long talk together in the best parlour. Then when the lady went away,

Innocent told me that she had wished to buy something from Briar

Farm--but that it was not to be sold."

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

BOOK TWO

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."

He folded up the note and put it in his pocket.

"That finishes me very decisively!" he said, with a laugh at himself

for his own temerity. "Who is it says a woman cannot keep a secret? She

can, and will, and does!--when it suits her to do so! Never mind, Miss

Armitage! I shall find you out when, you least expect it--never fear!"

Meanwhile Miss Leigh's little house in Kensington was the scene of

mingled confusion and triumph. The "paying guest"--the little

unobtrusive girl, with all her wardrobe in a satchel and her legacy of

four hundred pounds in bank-notes tucked into her bosom--had achieved

a success beyond her wildest dreams, and now had only to declare her

identity to become a "celebrity." Miss Lavinia had been for some days

in a state of nervous excitement, knowing that it was Innocent's first

literary effort which had created such a sensation. By this time she

had learned all the girl's history--Innocent had told her everything,

save and except the one fact of her parentage,--and this she held back,

not out of shame for herself, but consideration for the memory of the

handsome man whose portrait stood on the silent harpsichord. For she in

her turn had discovered Miss Lavinia's secret,--how the dear lady's

heart had been devoted to Pierce Armitage all her life, and how when

she knew he had been drawn away from her and captivated by another

woman her happiness had been struck down and withered like a flowering

rose in a hard gale of wind. For this romance, and the disillusion she

had suffered, Innocent loved her. The two had become fast friends,

almost like devoted mother and daughter. Miss Leigh was, as she had

stated in her "Morning Post" advertisement, well-connected, and she did

much for the girl who had by chance brought a new and thrilling

interest into her life--more than Innocent could possibly have done for

herself. The history of the child,--as much as she was told of it,--who

had been left so casually at a country farm on the mere chance of its

being kept and taken care of, affected her profoundly, and when

Innocent confided to her the fact that she had never been baptised, the

gentle old lady was moved to tears. No time was lost in lifting this

spiritual ban from the young life concerned, and the sacred rite was

performed quietly one morning in the church which Miss Leigh had

attended for many years, Miss Leigh having herself explained beforehand

some of the circumstances to the Vicar, and standing as god-mother to

the newly-received little Christian. And though there had arisen some

question as to the name by which she should be baptised, Miss Leigh

held tenaciously to the idea that she should retain the name her

"unknown" father had given her--"Innocent."

"Suppose he should not be dead," she said, "then if he were to meet you

some day, that name might waken his memory and lead him to identify

you. And I like it--it is pretty and original--quite Christian,

too,--there were several Popes named Innocent."

The girl smiled. She thought of Robin Clifford, and how he had aired

his knowledge to her on the same subject.

"But it is a man's name, isn't it?" she asked.

"Not more so than a woman's, surely!" declared Miss Leigh. "You can

always call yourself 'Ena' for short if you like--but 'Innocent' is the

prettier name."

And so "Innocent" it was,--and by the sprinkling of water and the

blessing of the Church the name was finally bestowed and sanctified.

Innocent herself was peacefully glad of her newly-attained spiritual

dignity and called Miss Lavinia her "fairy god-mother."

"Do you mind?" she asked, coaxingly. "It makes me so happy to feel that

you are one of those kind people in a fairy-tale, bringing good fortune

and blessing. I'm sure you ARE like that!"

Miss Lavinia protested against the sweet flattery, but all the same she

was pleased. She began to take the girl out with her to the houses of

various "great" personages--friends whom she knew well and who made an

intimate little social circle of their own--"old-fashioned" people

certainly, but happily free from the sort of suppressed rowdyism which

distinguishes the "nouveaux riches" of the present day,--people who

adhered rigidly to almost obsolete notions of honour and dignity, who

lived simply and well within their means, who spoke reverently of

things religious and believed in the old adage--"Manners makyth the

man." So by degrees, Innocent found herself among a small choice "set"

chiefly made up of the fragments of the real "old" aristocracy, to

which Miss Leigh herself belonged,--and, with her own quick intuition

and inborn natural grace, she soon became a favourite with them all.

But no one knew the secret of her literary aspirations save Miss Leigh,

and when her book was published anonymously and the reading world began

to talk of it as something unusual and wonderful, she was more

terrified than pleased. Its success was greater than she had ever

dreamed of, and her one idea was to keep up the mystery of its

authorship as long as possible, but every day made this more difficult.

And when John Harrington wrote to her, she felt that disclosure was

imminent. She had always kept the visiting-card he had given her when

they had travelled to London together, and she knew he belonged to the

staff of a great and leading newspaper,--he was a man not likely to be

baffled in any sort of enquiry he might choose to make. She thought

about this as she sat in her quiet little room, working at the last few

chapters of her second book which the publishers were eagerly waiting

for. What a magical change had been wrought in her life since she left

Briar Farm more than a year, aye,--nearly eighteen months ago! For one

thing, all fears of financial difficulty were at an end. Her first book

had brought her more money than she had ever had in her life, and the

publisher's offer for her second outweighed her most ambitious desires.

She was independent--she could earn sufficient, and more than

sufficient to keep herself in positive luxury if she chose,--but for

this she had no taste. Her little rooms in Miss Leigh's house satisfied

all her ideas of rest and comfort, and she stayed on with the kind old

lady by choice and affection, helping her in many ways, and submitting

to her guidance in every little social matter with the charming

humility of a docile and obedient spirit all too rare in these days

when youth is more full of effrontery than modesty. She had managed her

"literary" business so far well and carefully, representing herself as

the private secretary of an author who wished to remain anonymous, and

who had gone abroad, entrusting her with his manuscript to "place" with

any suitable firm that would make a suitable offer. The ruse would

hardly have succeeded in the case of any ordinary piece of work, but

the book itself was of too exceptional a quality to be passed over, and

the firm to which it was first offered recognised this and accepted it

without parley, astute enough to see its possibilities and to risk its

chances of success. And now she realised that her little plot might be

discovered any day, and that she would have to declare herself as the

writer of a strange and brilliant book which was the talk of the moment.

"I wonder what they will say when they know it at Briar Farm!" she

thought, with a smile and a half sigh.

Briar Farm seemed a long way off in these days. She had written

occasionally both to Priscilla and Robin Clifford; giving her address

and briefly stating that she had taken the name of Armitage, feeling

that she had no right to that of Jocelyn. But Priscilla could not

write, and contented herself with sending her "dear love and duty and

do come back soon," through Robin, who answered for both in letters

that were carefully cold and restrained. Now that he knew where she was

he made no attempt to visit her,--he was too grieved and disappointed

at her continued absence, and deeply hurt at what he considered her

"quixotic" conduct in adopting a different name,--an "alias" as he

called it.

"You have separated yourself from your old home by your own choice in

more ways than one," he wrote, "and I see I have no right to criticise

your actions. You are in a strange place and you have taken a strange

name,--I cannot feel that you are Innocent,--the Innocent of our bygone

happy years! It is better I should not go and see you--not unless you

send for me, when, of course, I will come."

She was both glad and sorry for this,--she would have liked to see him

again, and yet!--well!--she knew instinctively that if they met, it

would only cause him fresh unhappiness. Her new life had bestowed new

grace on her personality--all the interior intellectual phases of her

mind had developed in her a beauty of face and form which was rare,

subtle and elusive, and though she was not conscious of it herself, she

had that compelling attraction about her which few can resist,--a

fascination far greater than mere physical perfection. No one could

have called her actually beautiful,--hardly could it have been said she

was even "pretty"--but in her slight figure and intelligent face with

its large blue-grey eyes half veiled under dreamy, drooping lids and

long lashes, there was a magnetic charm which was both sweet and

powerful. Moreover, she dressed well,--in quiet taste, with a careful

avoidance of anything foolish or eccentric in fashion, and wherever she

went she made her effect as a graceful young presence expressive of

repose and harmony. She spoke delightfully,--in a delicious voice,

attuned to the most melodious inflections, and her constant study of

the finer literature of the past gave her certain ways of expressing

herself in a manner so far removed from the abrupt slanginess commonly

used to-day by young people of both sexes that she was called "quaint"

by some and "weird" by others of her own sex, though by men young and

old she was declared "charming." Guarded and chaperoned by good old

Miss Lavinia Leigh, she had no cause to be otherwise than satisfied

with her apparently reckless and unguided plunge into the mighty vortex

of London,--some beneficent spirit had led her into a haven of safety

and brought her straight to the goal of her ambition without difficulty.

"Of course I owe it all to Dad," she thought. "If it had not been for

the four hundred pounds he left me to 'buy pretties' with I could not

have done anything. I have bought my 'pretties'!--not bridal ones--but

things so much better!"

As the memory of her "Dad" came over her, tears sprang to her eyes. In

her mind she saw the smooth green pastures round Briar Farm--the

beautiful old gabled house,--the solemn trees waving their branches in

the wind over the tomb of the "Sieur Amadis,"--the doves wheeling round

and round in the clear air, and her own "Cupid" falling like a

snowflake from the roof to her caressing hand. All the old life of

country sights and sounds passed before her like a fair mirage, giving

place to dark days of sorrow, disillusion and loss,--the fleeting

glimpse of her self-confessed "mother," Lady Maude Blythe,--and the

knowledge she had so unexpectedly gained as to the actual identity of

her father--he, whose portrait was in the very house to which she had

come through no more romantic means than a chance advertisement in the

"Morning Post!" And Miss Lavinia--her "fairy godmother"--could she have

found a better friend, even in any elf stepping out of a magic pumpkin?

"If she ever knows the truth--if I am ever able to tell her that I am

HIS daughter," she said to herself, "I wonder if she will care for me

less or more? But I must not tell her!--She says he was so good and

noble! It would break her heart to think he had done anything wrong--or

that he had deserted his child."

And so she held her peace on this point, though she was often tempted

to break silence whenever Miss Leigh reverted to the story of her being

left in such a casual, yet romantic way at Briar Farm.

"I wonder who the handsome man was, my dear?" she would query--"Perhaps

he'll go back to the place and enquire for you. He may be some very

great personage!"

And Innocent would smile and shake her head.

"I fear not, my godmother!" she would reply. "You must not have any

fairy dreams about me! I was just a deserted baby--not wanted in the

world--but the world may have to take me all the same!"

And her eyes would flash, and her sensitive mouth would quiver as the

vision of fame like a mystical rainbow circled the heaven of her

youthful imagination--while Miss Leigh would sigh, and listen and

wonder,--she, whose simple hope and faith had been centred in a love

which had proved false and vain,--praying that the girl might realise

her ambition without the wreckage and disillusion of her life.

One evening--an evening destined to mark a turning-point in Innocent's

destiny--they went together to an "At Home" held at a beautiful studio

in the house of an artist deservedly famous. Miss Leigh had a great

taste for pictures, no doubt fostered since the early days of her

romantic attachment to a man who had painted them,--and she knew most

of the artists whose names were more or less celebrated in the modern

world. Her host on this special occasion was what is called a

"fashionable" portrait painter,--from the Queen downwards he had

painted the "counterfeit presentments" of ladies of wealth and title,

flattering them as delicately as his really clever brush would allow,

and thereby securing golden opinions as well as golden guineas. He was

a genial, breezy sort of man,--quite without vanity or any sort of

"art" ostentation, and he had been a friend of Miss Leigh's for many

years. Innocent loved going to his studio whenever her "godmother"

would take her, and he, in his turn, found interest and amusement in

talking to a girl who showed such a fresh, simple and unworldly nature,

united to intelligence and perception far beyond her years. On the

particular evening in question the studio was full of notable

people,--not uncomfortably crowded, but sufficiently so as to compose a

brilliant effect of colour and movement--beautiful women in wonderful

attire fluttered to and fro like gaily-plumaged birds among the

conventionally dark-clothed men who stood about in that aimless fashion

they so often affect when disinclined to talk or to make themselves

agreeable,--and there was a pleasantly subdued murmur of

voices,--cultured voices, well-attuned, and incapable of breaking into

the sheep-like snigger or asinine bray. Innocent, keeping close beside

her "god-mother," watched the animated scene with happy interest,

unconscious that many of those present watched her in turn with a good

deal of scarcely restrained curiosity. For, somehow or other, rumour

had whispered a flying word or two that it was possible she--even

she--that young, childlike-looking creature--might be, and probably was

the actual author of the clever book everybody was talking about, and

though no one had the hardihood to ask her point-blank if the report

was true, people glanced at her inquisitively and murmured their

"asides" of suggestion or incredulity, finding it difficult to believe

that a woman could at any time or by any means, alone and unaided,

snatch one flower from the coronal of fame. She looked very fair and

sweet and NON-literary, clad in a simple white gown made of some softly

clinging diaphanous material, wholly unadorned save by a small posy of

natural roses at her bosom,--and as she stood a little apart from the

throng, several artists noticed the grace of her personality--one

especially, a rather handsome man of middle age, who gazed at her

observantly and critically with a frank openness which, though bold,

was scarcely rude. She caught the straight light of his keen blue

eyes--and a thrill ran through her whole being, as though she had been

suddenly influenced by a magnetic current--then she flushed deeply as

she fancied she saw him smile. For the first time in her life she found

pleasure in the fact that a man had looked at her with plainly evinced

admiration in his fleeting glance,--and she watched him talking to

several people who all seemed delighted and flattered by his

notice--then he disappeared. Later on in the evening she asked her host

who he was. The famous R.A. considered for a moment.

"Do you mean a man with rough dark hair and a youngish face?--rather

good-looking in an eccentric sort of way?"

Innocent nodded eagerly.

"Yes! And he had blue eyes."

"Had he, really!" And the great artist smiled. "Well, I'm sure he would

be flattered at your close observation of him! I think I know

him,--that is, I know him as much as he will let anybody know him--he

is a curious fellow, but a magnificent painter--a real genius! He's

half French by descent, and his name is Jocelyn,--Amadis de Jocelyn."

For a moment the room went round in a giddy whirl of colour before her

eyes,--she could not credit her own hearing. Amadis de Jocelyn!--the

name of her old stone Knight of France, on his tomb at Briar Farm, with

his motto--"Mon coeur me soutien!"

"Amadis de Jocelyn!" she repeated, falteringly ... "Are you sure? ... I

mean ... is that his name really? ... it's so unusual... so curious..."

"Yes--it IS curious"--agreed her host--"but it's quite a good old

French name, belonging to a good old French family. The Jocelyns bore

arms for the Duc d'Anjou in the reign of Queen Elizabeth--and this man

is a sort of last descendant, very proud of his ancestry. I'll bring

him along and introduce him to you if you'll allow me."

Innocent murmured something--she scarcely knew what,--and in a few

minutes found herself giving the conventional bow in response to the

formal words--"Miss Armitage, Mr. de Jocelyn"--and looking straight up

at the blue eyes that a short while since had flashed an almost

compelling glance into her own. A strange sense of familiarity and

recognition moved her; something of the expression of her "Dad" was in

the face of this other Jocelyn of whom she knew nothing,--and her heart

beat so quickly that she could scarcely speak in answer when he

addressed her, as he did in a somewhat abrupt manner.

"Are you an art student?"

She smiled a little.

"Oh no! I am--nothing! ... I love pictures of course--"

"There is no 'of course' in it," he said, a humorous curve lifting the

corners of his moustache--"You're not bound to love pictures at all!

Most people hate them, and scarcely anybody understands them!"

She listened, charmed by the mellow and deep vibration of his voice.

"Everybody comes to see our friend here," he continued, with a slight

gesture of his hand towards their host, who had moved away,--"because

he is the fashion. If he were NOT the fashion he might paint like

Velasquez or Titian and no one would care a button!"

He seemed entertained by his own talk, and she did not interrupt him.

"You look like a stranger here," he went on, in milder accents--"a sort

of elf who has lost her way out of fairyland! Is anyone with you?"

"Yes," she answered, quickly--"Miss Leigh--"

"Miss Leigh? Who is she? Your aunt or your chaperone?"

She was more at her ease now, and laughed at his quick, brusque manner

of speech.

"Miss Leigh is my godmother," she said--"I call her my fairy godmother

because she is always so good and kind. There she is, standing by that

big easel."

He looked in the direction indicated.

"Oh yes!--I see! A charming old lady! I love old ladies when they don't

pretend to be young. That white hair of hers is very picturesque! So

she is your godmother!--and she takes care of you! Well! She might do

worse!"

He ruffled his thick crop of hair and looked at her more or less

quizzically.

"You have an air of suppressed enquiry," he said--"There is something

on your mind! You want to ask me a question--what is it?"

A soft colour flew over her cheeks--she was confused to find him

reading her thoughts.

"It is really nothing!" she answered, quickly--"I was only wondering a

little about your name--because it is one I have known all my life."

His eyebrows went up in surprise.

"Indeed? This is very interesting! I thought I was the only wearer of

such a very medieval appellation! Is there another so endowed?"

"There WAS another--long, long ago"--and, unconsciously to herself her

delicate features softened into a dreamy and rapt expression as she

spoke,--while her voice fell into its sweetest and most persuasive

tone. "He was a noble knight of France, and he came over to England

with the Due d' Anjou when the great Elizabeth was Queen. He fell in

love with a very beautiful Court lady, who would not care for him at

all,--so, as he was unhappy and broken-hearted, he went away from

London and hid himself from everybody in the far country. There he

bought an old manor-house and called it Briar Farm--and he married a

farmer's daughter and settled in England for good--and he had six sons

and daughters. And when he died he was buried on his own land--and his

effigy is on his tomb--it was sculptured by himself. I used to put

flowers on it, just where his motto was carved--'Mon coeur me soutien.'

For I--I was brought up at Briar Farm... and I was quite fond of the

Sieur Amadis!"

She looked up with a serious, sweet luminance in her eyes--and he was

suddenly thrilled by her glance, and moved by a desire to turn her

romantic idyll into something of reality. This feeling was merely the

physical one of an amorously minded man,--he knew, or thought he knew,

women well enough to hold them at no higher estimate than that of

sex-attraction,--yet, with all the cynicism he had attained through

long experience of the world and its ways, he recognised a charm in

this fair little creature that was strange and new and singularly

fascinating, while the exquisite modulations of her voice as she told

the story of the old French knight, so simply yet so eloquently, gave

her words the tenderness of a soft song well sung.

"A pity you should waste fondness on a man of stone!" he said, lightly,

bending his keen steel-blue eyes on hers. "But what you tell me is most

curious, for your 'Sieur Amadis' must be the missing branch of my own

ancestral tree. May I explain?--or will it bore you?"

She gave him a swift, eager glance.

"Bore me?" she echoed--"How could it? Oh, do please let me know

everything--quickly!"

He smiled at her enthusiasm.

"We'll sit down here out of the crowd," he said,--and, taking her arm

gently, he guided her to a retired corner of the studio which was

curtained off to make a cosy and softly cushioned recess. "You have

told me half a romance! Perhaps I can supply the other half." He

paused, looking at her, whimsically pleased to see the warm young blood

flushing her cheeks as he spoke, and her eyes drooping under his

penetrating gaze. "Long, long ago--as you put it--in the days of good

Queen Bess, there lived a certain Hugo de Jocelin, a nobleman of

France, famed for fierce deeds of arms, and for making himself

generally disagreeable to his neighbours with whom he was for ever at

cross-purposes. This contentious personage had two sons,--Jeffrey and

Amadis,--also knights-at-arms, inheriting the somewhat excitable nature

of their father; and the younger of these, Amadis, whose name I bear,

was selected by the Duc d'Anjou to accompany him with his train of

nobles and gentles, when that 'petit grenouille' as he called himself,

went to England to seek Queen Elizabeth's hand in marriage. The Duke

failed in his ambitious quest, as we all know, and many of his

attendants got scattered and dispersed,--among them Amadis, who was

entirely lost sight of, and never returned again to the home of his

fathers. He was therefore supposed to be dead--"

"MY Amadis!" murmured Innocent, her eyes shining like stars as she

listened.

"YOUR Amadis!--yes!" And his voice softened. "Of course he must have

been YOUR Amadis!--your 'Knight of old and warrior bold!' Well! None of

his own people ever heard of him again--and in the family tree he is

marked as missing. But Jeffrey stayed at home in France,--and in due

course inherited his father's grim old castle and lands. He married,

and had a large family,--much larger than the six olive-branches

allotted to your friend of Briar Farm,"--and he smiled. "He, Jeffrey,

is my ancestor, and I can trace myself back to him in direct lineage,

so you see I have quite the right to my curious name!"

She clasped and unclasped her little hands nervously--she was shy of

raising her eyes to his face.

"It is wonderful!" she murmured--"I can hardly believe it possible that

I should meet here in London a real Jocelyn!--one of the family of the

Sieur Amadis!"

"Does it seem strange?" He laughed. "Oh no! Nothing is strange in this

queer little world! But I don't quite know what the exact connection is

between me and your knight--it's too difficult for me to grasp! I

suppose I'm a sort of great-great-great-grand-nephew! However, nothing

can alter the fact that I am also an Amadis de Jocelyn!"

She glanced up at him quickly.

"You are, indeed!" she said. "It is you who ought to be the master of

Briar Farm!"

"Ought I?" He was amused at her earnestness. "Why?"

"Because there is no direct heir now to the Sieur Amadis!" she

answered, almost sadly. "His last descendant is dead. His name was

Hugo--Hugo Jocelyn--and he was a farmer, and he left all he had to his

nephew, the only child of his sister who died before him. The nephew is

very good, and clever, too,--he was educated at Oxford,--but he is not

an actually lineal descendant."

He laughed again, this time quite heartily, at the serious expression

of her face.

"That's very terrible!" he said. "I don't know when I've heard anything

so lamentable! And I'm afraid I can't put matters right! I should never

do for a farmer--I'm a painter. I had better go down and see this

famous old place, and the tomb of my ever so great-great-grand-uncle! I

could make a picture of it--I ought to do that, as it belonged to the

family of my ancestors. Will you take me?"

She gave him a little fleeting, reluctant smile.

"You are making fun of it all," she said. "That is not wise of you! You

should not laugh at grave and noble things."

He was charmed with her quaintness.

"Was he grave and noble?--Amadis, I mean?" he asked, his blue eyes

sparkling with a kind of mirthful ardour. "You are sure? Well, all

honour to him! And to YOU--for believing in him! I hope you'll consider

me kindly for his sake! Will you?"

A quick blush suffused her cheeks.

"Of course!--I must do so!" she answered, simply. "I owe him so much--"

then, fearful of betraying her secret of literary authorship, she

hesitated--"I mean--he taught me all I know. I studied all his old

books...."

Just then their cheery host came up.

"Well! Have you made friends? Ah!--I see you have! Mutual intelligence,

mutual comprehension! Jocelyn, will you bring Miss Innocent in to

supper?--I leave her in your charge."

"Miss Innocent?" repeated Jocelyn, doubtful as to whether this was said

by way of a joke or not.

"Yes--some people call her Ena--but her real name is Innocent. Isn't

it, little lady?"

She smiled and coloured. Jocelyn looked at her with a curious

intentness.

"Really? Your name is Innocent?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered him--"I'm afraid it's a very unusual name--"

"It is indeed!" he said with emphasis. "Innocent by name and by nature!

Will you come?"

She rose at once, and they moved away together.

CHAPTER II

Chance and coincidence play curious pranks with human affairs, and one

of the most obvious facts of daily experience is that the merest

trifle, occurring in the most haphazard way, will often suffice to

change the whole intention and career of a life for good or for evil.

It is as though a musician in the composition of a symphony should

suddenly bethink himself of a new and strange melody, and, pleasing his

fancy with the innovation, should wilfully introduce it at the last

moment, thereby creating more or less of a surprise for the audience.

Something of this kind happened to Innocent after her meeting with the

painter who bore the name of her long idealised knight of France,

Amadis de Jocelin. She soon learned that he was a somewhat famous

personage,--famous for his genius, his scorn of accepted rules, and his

contempt for all "puffery," push and patronage, as well as for his

brusquerie in society and carelessness of conventions. She also heard

that his works had been rejected twice by the Royal Academy Council, a

reason he deemed all-sufficient for never appealing to that exclusive

school of favouritism again,--while everything he chose to send was

eagerly accepted by the French Salon, and purchased as soon as

exhibited. His name had begun to stand very high--and his original

character and personality made him somewhat of a curiosity among

men--one more feared than favoured. He took a certain pleasure in

analysing his own disposition for the benefit of any of his

acquaintances who chose to listen,--and the harsh judgment he passed on

himself was not altogether without justice or truth.

"I am an essentially selfish man," he would say--"I have met

selfishness everywhere among my fellow men and women, and have imbibed

it as a sponge imbibes water. I've had a fairly hard time, and I've

experienced the rough side of human nature, getting more kicks than

halfpence. Now that the kicks have ceased I'm in no mood for soft soap.

I know the humbug of so-called 'friendship'--the rarity of

sincerity--and as for love!--there's no such thing permanently in man,

woman or child. What is called 'love' is merely a comfortable

consciousness that one particular person is agreeable and useful to you

for a time--but it's only for a time--and marriage which seeks to bind

two people together till death is the heaviest curse ever imposed on

manhood or womanhood! Devotion and self-sacrifice are merest folly--the

people you sacrifice yourself for are never worth it, and devotion is

generally, if not always, misplaced. The only thing to do in this life

is to look after yourself,--serve yourself--please yourself! No one

will do anything for you unless they can get something out of it for

their own advantage,--you're bound to follow the general example!"

Notwithstanding this candid confession of cynical egotism, the man had

greatness in him, and those who knew his works readily recognised his

power. The impression he had made on Innocent's guileless and romantic

nature was beyond analysis,--she did not try to understand it herself.

His name and the connection he had with the old French knight of her

childhood's dreams and fancies had moved and roused her to a new

interest in life--and just as she had hitherto been unwilling to betray

the secret of her literary authorship, she was now eager to have it

declared--for one reason only,--that he might perhaps think well of

her. Whereby it will be seen that the poor child, endowed with a

singular genius as she was, knew nothing of men and their never-failing

contempt for the achievements of gifted women. Delicate of taste and

sensitive in temperament she was the very last sort of creature to

realise the ugly truth that men, taken en masse, consider women in one

only way--that of sex,--as the lower half of man, necessary to man's

continuance, but always the mere vessel of his pleasure. To her, Amadis

de Jocelyn was the wonderful realisation of an ideal,--but she was very

silent concerning him,--reserved and almost cold. This rather

surprised good Miss Lavinia Leigh, whose romantic tendencies had been

greatly stirred by the story of the knight of Briar Farm and the

discovery of a descendant of the same family in one of the most admired

artists of the day. They visited Jocelyn's studio together--a vast,

bare place, wholly unadorned by the tawdry paraphernalia which is

sometimes affected by third-rate men to create an "art" impression on

the minds of the uninstructed--and they had stood lost in wonder and

admiration before a great picture he was painting on commission,

entitled "Wild Weather." It was what is called by dealers an "important

work," and represented night closing in over a sea lashed into fury by

the sweep of a stormy wind. So faithfully was the scene of terror and

elemental confusion rendered that it was like nature itself, and the

imaginative eye almost looked for the rising waves to tumble liquidly

from the painted canvas and break on the floor in stretches of creamy

foam. Gentle Miss Leigh was conscious of a sudden beating of the heart

as she looked at this masterpiece of form and colour,--it reminded her

of the work of Pierce Armitage. She ventured to say so, with a little

hesitation, and Jocelyn caught at the name.

"Armitage?--Yes--he was beginning to be rather famous some

five-and-twenty years ago--I wonder what became of him? He promised

great things. By the way"--and he turned to Innocent--"YOUR name is

Armitage! Any relation to him?"

The colour rushed to her cheeks and fled again, leaving her very pale.

"No," she answered.

He looked at her inquisitively.

"Well, Armitage is not as outlandish a name as Amadis de Jocelyn," he

said--"You will hardly find two of ME!--and I expect I shall hardly

find two of YOU!" and he smiled--"especially if what I have heard is

anything more than rumour!"

Her eyes filled with an eager light.

"What do you mean?"

He laughed,--yet in himself was conscious of a certain embarrassment.

"Well!--that a certain 'Innocent' young lady is a great author!" he

said--"There! You have it! I'm loth to believe it, and hope the report

isn't true, for I'm afraid of clever women! Indeed I avoid them

whenever I can!"

A sudden sense of hopelessness and loss fell over her like a cloud--her

lips quivered.

"Why should you do so?" she asked--"We do not avoid clever men!"

He smiled.

"Ah! That is different!"

She was silent. Miss Leigh looked a little distressed.

He went on lightly.

"My dear Miss Armitage, don't be angry with me!" he said--"You are so

delightfully ignorant of the ways of our sex, and I for one heartily

wish you might always remain so! But we men are proverbially

selfish-and we like to consider cleverness, or 'genius' if you will, as

our own exclusive property. We hate the feminine poacher on our

particular preserves! We consider that women were made to charm and to

amuse us--not to equal us. Do you see? When a woman is clever--perhaps

cleverer than we are--she ceases to be amusing--and we must be amused!

We cannot have our fun spoiled by the blue-stocking element,--though

you--YOU do not look in the least 'blue'!"

She turned from him in a mute vexation. She thought his talk trifling

and unmanly. Miss Leigh came to the rescue.

"No--Innocent is certainly not 'blue,'" she said, sweetly--"If by that

term you mean 'advanced' or in any way unwomanly. But she has been

singularly gifted by nature--yes, dear child, I must be allowed to

speak!"--this, as Innocent made an appealing gesture,--"and if people

say she is the author of the book that is just now being so much talked

of, they are only saying the truth. The secret cannot be kept much

longer."

He heard--then went quickly up to the girl where she stood in a

somewhat dejected attitude near his easel.

"Then it IS true!" he said--"I heard it yesterday from an old

journalist friend of mine, John Harrington--but I couldn't quite

believe it. Let me congratulate you on your brilliant success--"

"You do not care!" she said, almost in a whisper.

"Oh, do I not?" He was amused, and taking her hand kissed it lightly.

"If all literary women were like YOU--"

He left the sentence unfinished, but his eyes conveyed a wordless

language which made her heart beat foolishly and her nerves thrill. She

forgot the easy mockery which had distinguished his manner since when

speaking of the "blue-stocking element"-and once more "Amadis de

Jocelyn" sat firmly on her throne of the ideal!

That very afternoon, on her return from Jocelyn's studio to Miss

Leigh's little house in Kensington which she now called her "home"--she

found a reply-paid telegram from her publishers, running thus:

"Eminent journalist John Harrington reviews book favourably in evening

paper suggesting that you are the actual author. May we deny or

confirm?"

She thought for some minutes before deciding--and went to Miss Leigh

with the telegram in her hand.

"Godmother mine!" she said, kneeling down beside her--"Tell me, what

shall I do? Is it any use continuing to wear the veil of mystery? Shall

I take up my burden and bear it like a man?"

Miss Lavinia smiled, and drew the girl's fair head to her bosom.

"Poor little one!" she said, tenderly--"I know just what you feel about

it! You would rather remain quietly in your own dreamland than face the

criticism of the world, or be pointed out as a 'celebrity'--yes, I

quite understand! But I think you must, in justice to yourself and

others, 'take up the burden'--as you put it--yes, child! You must wear

your laurels, though for you I should prefer the rose!"

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 received

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 receiving 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?"

Miss Leigh hesitated.

"I hardly know how to put it," she answered, at last--"She's a

kind-hearted woman--very generous--and most helpful in works of

charity. I never knew such energy as she shows in organising charity

bails and bazaars!--perfectly wonderful!--but she likes to live her

life--"

"Who would not!" murmured the girl, scarcely audibly.

"And she lives it--very much so!--rather to the dregs!" continued the

old lady, with emphasis. "She has no real aim beyond the satisfaction

of her own vanity and social power--and you, with your beautiful

thoughts and ideals, might not like the kind of people she surrounds

herself with--people, who only want amusement and

'sensation'--particularly sensation--"

Innocent said nothing for a minute or two--then she looked up, brightly.

"To go or not to go, godmother mine! Which is it to be? The decision

rests with you! Yes, or no?"

"I think it must be 'yes'"--and Miss Leigh emphasised the word with a

little nod of her head. "It would be unwise to refuse--especially just

now when everyone is talking of you and wishing to see you. And you are

quite worth seeing!"

The girl gave a slight gesture of indifference and moved away slowly

and listlessly, as though fatigued by the mere effort of speech. Miss

Leigh noted this with some concern, watching her as she went, and

admiring the supple grace of her small figure, the well-shaped little

head so proudly poised on the slim throat, and the burnished sheen of

her bright hair.

"She grows prettier every day," she thought--"But not happier, I

fear!--not happier, poor child!"

Innocent meanwhile, upstairs in her own little study, was reading and

re-reading a brief letter which had come for her by the same post that

had delivered the Duchess's invitation.

"I hear you are among the guests invited to the Duchess of Deanshire's

party," it ran--"I hope you will go--for the purely selfish reason that

I want to meet you there. Hers is a great house with plenty of room,

and a fine garden--for London. People crowd to her 'crushes', but one

can always escape the mob. I have seen so little of you lately, and you

are now so famous that I shall think myself lucky if I may touch the

hem of your garment. Will you encourage me thus far? Like Hamlet, 'I

lack advancement'! When will you take me to Briar Farm? I should like

to see the tomb of my very ancestral uncle--could we not arrange a

day's outing in the country while the weather is fine? I throw myself

on your consideration and clemency for this--and for many other

unwritten things!

Yours,

AMADIS DE JOCELYN."

There was nothing in this easily worded scrawl to make an ordinarily

normal heart beat faster, yet the heart of this simple child of the

gods, gifted with genius and deprived of worldly wisdom as all such

divine children are, throbbed uneasily, and her eyes were wet. More

than this, she touched the signature,--the long-familiar name--with her

soft lips,--and as though afraid of what she had done, hurriedly folded

the letter and locked it away.

Then she sat down and thought. Nearly two years had elapsed since she

had left Briar Farm, and in that short time she had made the name she

had adopted famous. She could not call it her own name; born out of

wedlock, she had no right, by the stupid law, to the name of her

father. She could, legally, have worn the maiden name of her mother had

she known it--but she did not know it. And what she was thinking of

now, was this: Should she tell her lately discovered second "Amadis de

Jocelyn" the true story of her birth and parentage at this, the outset

of their friendship, before--well, before it went any further? She

could not consult Miss Leigh on the point, without smirching the

reputation of Pierce Armitage, the man whose memory was enshrined in

that dear lady's heart as a thing of unsullied honour. She puzzled

herself over the question for a long time, and then decided to keep her

own counsel.

"After all, why should I tell him?" she asked herself. "It might make

trouble--he is so proud of his lineage, and I too am proud of it for

him! ... why should I let him know that I inherit nothing but my

mother's shame!"

Her heart grew heavy as her position was thus forced back upon her by

her own thoughts. Up to the present no one had asked who she was, or

where she came from--she was understood to be an orphan, left alone in

the world, who by her own genius and unaided effort had lifted herself

into the front rank among the "shining lights" of the day. This, so

far, had been sufficient information for all with whom she had come in

contact--but as time went on, would not people ask more about her?--who

were her father and mother?--where she was born?--how she had been

educated? These inquisitorial demands were surely among the penalties

of fame! And, if she told the truth, would she not, despite the renown

she had won, be lightly, even scornfully esteemed by conventional

society as a "bastard" and interloper, though the manner of her birth

was no fault of her own, and she was unjustly punishable for the sins

of her parents, such being the wicked law!

The night of the Duchess's reception was one of those close sultry

nights of June in London when the atmosphere is well-nigh as

suffocating as that of some foetid prison where criminals have been

pacing their dreary round all day. Royal Ascot was just over, and space

and opportunity were given for several social entertainments to be

conveniently checked off before Henley. Outside the Duke's great house

there was a constant stream of motor-cars and taxi-cabs; a passing

stranger might have imagined all the world and his wife were going to

the Duchess's "At Home." It was difficult to effect an entrance, but

once inside, the scene was one of veritable enchantment. The lovely

hues and odours of flowers, the softened glitter of thousands of

electric lamps shaded with rose-colour, the bewildering brilliancy of

women's clothes and jewels, the exquisite music pouring like a rippling

stream through the magnificent reception-rooms, all combined to create

a magical effect of sensuous beauty and luxury; and as Innocent,

accompanied by the sweet-faced old-fashioned lady who played the part

of chaperone with such gentle dignity, approached her hostess, she was

a little dazzled and nervous. Her timidity made her look all the more

charming--she had the air of a wondering child called up to receive an

unexpected prize at school. She shrank visibly when her name was

shouted out in a stentorian voice by the gorgeously liveried major-domo

in attendance, quite unaware that it created a thrill throughout the

fashionable assemblage, and that all eyes were instantly upon her. The

Duchess, diamond-crowned and glorious in gold-embroidered tissue, kept

back by a slight gesture the pressing crowd of guests, and extended her

hand with marked graciousness and a delightful smile.

"SUCH a pleasure and honour!" she said, sweetly--"So good of you to

come! You will give me a few words with you later on? Yes? Everybody

will want to speak to you!--but you must let me have a chance too!"

Innocent murmured something gently deprecatory as a palliative to this

sort of society "gush" which always troubled her--and moved on.

Everybody gazed, whispered and wondered, astonished at the youth and

evident unworldliness of the "author of those marvellous books!"--so

the commentary ran;--the women criticised her gown, which was one of

pale blue silken stuff caught at the waist and shoulders by quaint

clasps of dull gold--a gown with nothing remarkable about it save its

cut and fit--melting itself, as it were, around her in harmonious folds

of fine azure which suggested without emphasising the graceful lines of

her form. The men looked, and said nothing much except "A pity she's a

writing woman! Mucking about Fleet Street!"--mere senseless talk which

they knew to be senseless, inasmuch as "mucking" about Fleet Street is

no part of any writer's business save that of the professional

journalist. Happily ignorant of comment, the girl made her way quietly

and unobtrusively through the splendid throng, till she was presently

addressed by a stoutish, pleasant-featured man, with small twinkling

eyes and an agreeable surface manner.

"I missed you just now when my wife received you," he said--"May I

present myself? I am your host--proud of the privilege!"

Innocent smiled as she bowed and held out her hand; she was amused, and

taken a little by surprise. This was the Duke of Deanshire--this quite

insignificant-looking personage--he was the owner of the great house

and the husband of the great lady,--and yet he had the appearance of a

very ordinary nobody. But that he was a "somebody" of paramount

importance there was no doubt; and when he said, "May I give you my arm

and take you through the rooms? There are one or two pictures you may

like to see," she was a little startled. She looked round for Miss

Leigh, but that tactful lady, seeing the position, had disappeared. So

she laid her little cream-gloved hand on the Duke's arm and went with

him, shyly at first, yet with a pretty stateliness which was all her

own, and moving slowly among the crowd of guests, gradually recovered

her ease and self-possession, and began to talk to him with a

delightful naturalness and candour which fairly captivated His Grace,

in fact, "bowled him over," as he afterwards declared. She was

blissfully unaware that his manner of escorting her on his arm through

the long vista of the magnificent rooms had been commanded and arranged

by the Duchess, in order that she should be well looked at and

criticised by all assembled as the "show" person of the evening. She

was so unconscious of the ordeal to which she was being subjected that

she bore it with the perfect indifference which such unconsciousness

gives. All at once the Duke came to a standstill.

"Here is a great friend of mine--one of the best I have in the world,"

he said--"I want to introduce him to you,"--this, as a tall old man

paused near them with a smile and enquiring glance, "Lord Blythe--Miss

Armitage."

Innocent's heart gave a wild bound; for a moment she felt a struggling

sensation in her throat moving her to cry out, and it was only with a

violent effort that she repressed herself.

"You've heard of Miss Armitage--Ena Armitage,--haven't you, Blythe?"

went on the Duke, garrulously. "Of course! all the world has heard of

her!"

"Indeed it has!" and Lord Blythe bowed ceremoniously. "May I

congratulate you on winning your laurels while you are young enough to

enjoy them! One moment!--my wife is most anxious to meet you--"

He turned to look for her, while Innocent, trembling violently,

wondered desperately whether it would be possible for her to run

away!--anywhere--anywhere, rather than endure what she knew must come!

The Duke noticed her sudden pallor with concern.

"Are you cold?" he asked--"I hope there is no draught---"

"Oh no--no!" she murmured--"It is nothing--"

Then she braced herself up in every nerve--drawing her little body

erect, as though a lily should lift itself to the sun--she saw Lord

Blythe approaching with a handsome woman dressed in silvery grey and

wearing a coronet of emeralds--and in one more moment looked full in

the face--of her mother!

"Lady Blythe--Miss Armitage."

Lady Blythe turned white to the lips. Her dark eyes opened widely in

amazement and fear--she put out a hand as though to steady herself. Her

husband caught it, alarmed.

"Maude! Are you ill?"

"Not at all!" and she forced a laugh. "I am perfectly--perfectly

well!--a little faint perhaps! The heat, I think! Yes--of course! Miss

Armitage--the famous author! I am--I am very proud to meet you!"

"Most kind of you!" said Innocent, quietly.

And they still looked at each other, very strangely.

The men beside them were a little embarrassed, the Duke twirled his

short white moustache, and Lord Blythe glanced at his wife with some

wonder and curiosity. Both imagined, with the usual short-sightedness

of the male sex, that the women had taken a sudden fantastic dislike to

one another.

"By jove, she's jealous!" thought the Duke, fully aware that Lady

Blythe was occasionally "moved that way."

"The girl seems frightened of her," was Lord Blythe's inward comment,

knowing that his wife did not always create a sympathetic atmosphere.

But her ladyship was soon herself again and laughed quite merrily at

her husband's anxious expression.

"I'm all right--really!" she said, with a quick, almost defiant turn of

her head towards him, the emeralds in her dark hair flashing with a

sinister gleam like lightning on still water. "You must remember it's

rather overwhelming to be introduced to a famous author and think of

just the right thing to say at the right moment! Isn't it, Miss

Armitage?"

"It is as you feel," replied Innocent, coldly.

Lady Blythe rattled on gaily.

"Do come and talk to me for a few moments!--it will be so good of you!

The garden's lovely!--shall we go there? Now, my dear Duke, don't look

so cross, I'll bring her back to you directly!" and she nodded

pleasantly. "You want her, of course!--everybody wants her!--such a

celebrity!" then, turning again to Innocent, "Will you come?"

As one in a dream the girl obeyed her inviting gesture, and they passed

out of the room together through a large open French window to a

terraced garden, dimly illumined in the distance by the glitter of

fairy lamps, but for the most part left to the tempered brilliancy of a

misty red moon. Once away from the crowd, Lady Blythe walked quickly

and impatiently, scarcely looking at the youthful figure that

accompanied her own, like a fair ghost gliding step for step beside

her. At last she stopped; they were well away from the house in a

quaint bit of garden shaded with formal fir-trees and clipped yews,

where a fountain dashed up a slender spiral thread of white spray. A

strange sense of fury in her broke loose; with pale face and cruel,

glittering eyes she turned upon her daughter.

"How dare you!" she half whispered, through her set teeth--"How dare

you!"

Innocent drew back a step, and looked at her steadfastly.

"I do not understand you," she said.

"You do understand!--you understand only too well!" and Lady Blythe put

her hand to the pearls at her throat as though she felt them choking

her. "Oh, I could strike you for your insolence! I wish I had never

sought you out or told you how you were born! Is this your revenge for

the manner of your birth, that you come to shame me among my own

class--my own people--"

Innocent's eyes flashed with a fire seldom seen in their soft depths.

"Shame you?" she echoed. "I? What shame have I brought you? What shame

shall I bring? Had you owned me as your child I would have made you

proud of me! I would have given you honour,--you abandoned me to

strangers, and I have made honour for myself! Shame is YOURS and yours

only!--it would be mine if I had to acknowledge YOU as my mother!--you

who never had the courage to be true!" Her young voice thrilled with

passion.--"I have won my own way! I am something beyond and above

you!--'your own class--your own people,' as you call them, are at MY

feet,--and you--you who played with my father's heart and spoilt his

career--you have lived to know that I, his deserted child, have made

his name famous!"

Lady Blythe stared at her like some enraged cat ready to spring.

"His name--his name!" she muttered, fiercely. "Yes, and how dare you

take it? You have no right to it in law!"

"Wise law, just law!" said the girl, passionately. "Would you rather I

had taken yours? I might have done so had I known it--though I think

not, as I should have been ashamed of any 'maiden' name you had

dishonoured! When you came to Briar Farm to find me--to see me--so

late, so late!--after long years of desertion--I told you it was

possible to make a name;--one cannot go nameless through the world! I

have made mine!--independently and honestly--in fact"--and she smiled,

a sad cold smile--"it is an honour for you, my mother, to know me, your

daughter!"

Lady Blythe's face grew ghastly pale in the uncertain light of the

half-veiled moon. She moved a step and caught the girl's arm with some

violence.

"What do you mean to do?" she asked, in an angry whisper, "I must know!

What are your plans of vengeance?--your campaign of notoriety?--your

scheme of self-advertisement? What claim will you make?"

"None!" and Innocent looked at her fully, with calm and fearless

dignity. "I have no claim upon you, thank God! I am less to you than a

dropped lamb, lost in a thicket of thorns, is to the sheep that bore

it! That's a rough country simile,--I was brought up on a farm, you

know!--but it will serve your case. Think nothing of me, as I think

nothing of you! What I am, or what I may be to the world, is my own

affair!"

There was a pause. Presently Lady Blythe gave a kind of shrill

hysterical laugh.

"Then, when we meet in society, as we have met to-night, it will be as

comparative strangers?"

"Why, of course!--we have always been strangers," the girl replied,

quietly. "No strangers were ever more strange to each other than we!"

"You mean to keep MY secret?--and your own?"

"Certainly. Do you suppose I would give my father's name to slander?"

"Your father!--you talk of your father as if HE was worth

consideration!--he was chiefly to blame for your position--"

"Was he? I am not quite sure of that," said Innocent, slowly--"I do not

know all the circumstances. But I have heard that he was a great

artist; and that some woman he loved ruined his life. And I believe you

are that woman!"

Lady Blythe laughed--a hard mirthless laugh.

"Believe what you like!" she said--"You are an imaginative little fool!

When you know more of the world you will find out that men ruin women's

lives as casually as cracking nuts, but they take jolly good care of

their own skins! Pierce Armitage was too selfish a man to sacrifice his

own pleasure and comfort for anyone--he was glad to get rid of me--and

of YOU! And now--now!" She threw up her hands with an expressive,

half-tragic gesture. "Now you are famous!--actually famous! Good

heavens!--why, I thought you would stay in that old farmhouse all your

life, scrubbing the floors and looking after the poultry, and perhaps

marrying some good-natured country yokel! Famous!--you!--with social

London dancing attendance on you! What a ghastly comedy!" She laughed

again. "Come!--we must go back to the house."

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.