BOOK TWO: HIS FACT
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER I
In London, the greatest metropolis of the world, the smallest affairsare often discussed with more keenness than things of nationalimportance,--and it is by no means uncommon to find society moreinterested in the doings of some particular man or woman than in thelatest and most money-milking scheme of Government finance. In this wayit happened that about a year after Innocent had, like a small boat ina storm, broken loose from her moorings and drifted out to the widesea, everybody who was anybody became suddenly thrilled with curiosityconcerning the unknown personality of an Author. There are so manyAuthors nowadays that it is difficult to get up even a show of interestin one of them,--everybody "writes"--from Miladi in Belgravia, whoconsiders the story of her social experiences, expressed inquestionable grammar, quite equal to the finest literature, down to thestable-boy who essays a "prize" shocker for a penny dreadful. But thislatest aspirant to literary fame had two magnetic qualities whichseldom fail to arouse the jaded spirit of the reading public,--noveltyand mystery, united to that scarce and seldom recognised power calledgenius. He or she had produced a Book. Not an ephemeral piece offiction,--not a "Wells" effort of imagination under hydraulicpressure--not an hysterical outburst of sensual desire anddisappointment such as moves the souls of demimondaines anddressmakers,--not even a "detective" sensation--but just a Book--a realBook, likely to live as long as literature itself. It was something inthe nature of a marvel, said those who knew what they were talkingabout, that such a book should have been written at all in these moderndays. The "style" of it was exquisite and scholarly--quaint,expressive, and all-sufficing in its artistic simplicity,--thoughtstrue for all time were presented afresh with an admirable point anddelicacy that made them seem new and singularly imperative,--and thestory which, like a silken thread, held all the choice jewels oflanguage together in even and brilliant order, was pure andidyllic,--warm with a penetrating romance, yet most sincerely human.When this extraordinary piece of work was published, it slipped fromthe press in quite a modest way without much preliminary announcement,and for two or three weeks after its appearance nobody knew anythingabout it. The publishers themselves were evidently in doubt as to itsreception, and signified their caution by economy in the way ofadvertisement--it was not placarded in the newspaper columns as "A Bookof the Century" or "A New Literary Event." It simply glided into thecrowd of books without noise or the notice of reviewers--just one of apushing, scrambling, shouting multitude,--and quite suddenly founditself the centre of the throng with all eyes upon it, and all tonguesquestioning the how, when and where of its author. No one could say howit first began to be thus busily talked about,--the critics hadbestowed upon it nothing of either their praise or blame,--yet somehowthe ball had been set rolling, and it gathered size and force as itrolled, 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 inthe general chorus of delight and admiration, taking wider space in theadvertisement columns of the press for the "work of genius" which hadinadvertently fallen into their hands--but when it came to answeringthe questions put to them respecting its writer they had very little tosay, being themselves more or less in the dark.
"The manuscript was sent to us in the usual way," the head of the firmexplained to John Harrington, one of the soundest and most influentialof journalists, "just on chance,--it was neither introduced norrecommended. One of our readers was immensely taken with it and advisedus to accept it. The author gave no name, and merely requested allcommunications to be made through his secretary, a Miss Armitage, as hewished for the time being to remain anonymous. We drew up an Agreementon these lines which was signed for the author by Miss Armitage,--shealso corrected and passed the proofs--"
"Perhaps she also wrote the book," interrupted Harrington, with anamused twinkle in his eyes--"I suppose such a solution of the mysteryhas not occurred to you?"
The publisher smiled. "Under different circumstances it might have doneso," he replied, "but we have seen Miss Armitage several times--she isquite a young girl, not at all of the 'literary' type, though she isvery careful and accurate in her secretarial work--I mean as regardsbusiness letters and attention to detail. But at her age she could nothave had the scholarship to produce such a book. The author shows aclose familiarity with sixteenth-century literature such as could onlybe gained by a student of the style of that period,--Miss Armitage hasnothing of the 'book-worm' about her--she is quite a simple youngperson--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 willforward 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 addressgiven to the driver of the taxi-cab in which the girl with whom he hadtravelled to London more than a year ago had gone, as it seemed, out ofhis sight. Every little incident connected with her came freshly backto 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 toearn her own living. If this was the way--if she was indeed the authorof 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 'GreatUnknown'! I suppose you'll take anything else you can get by the samehand?"
"Rather!" And the publisher nodded emphatically--"We have alreadysecured 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 youshould think that because a woman looks like a school-girl she cannotwrite a clever book if gifted that way, is a condition ofnon-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 atthe twaddle men turn out every day in the form of novels alone! Many ofthem are worse than the worst weak fiction by women. I tell you I'velived long enough to know that a woman's brain can beat a man's if shecares to test it, so long as she does not fall in love. When once thatdisaster happens it's all over with her! It's the one drawback to awoman's career; if she would only keep clear of love and self-sacrificeshe'd do wonders! Men never allow love to interfere with so much astheir own smoke--very few among them would sacrifice a good cigar fora woman! As for this girl, Miss Armitage, I'll pluck out the heart ofher mystery for you! I suppose you won't pay any less for good work ifit 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 thousandpounds in royalties on the present book, and we have agreed to give twothousand in advance on the next. The author has expressed himself asperfectly satisfied--"
"Through Miss Armitage?" put in Harrington.
"Yes. Through Miss Armitage."
"Well!" And Harrington turned to go--"I hope Miss Armitage will alsoexpress herself as perfectly satisfied after I have seen her! I shallwrite and ask permission to call--"
"Surely"--and the publisher looked distressed--"surely you do notintend 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 simplyabsurd! 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 tooold a hand to get myself or anybody else into trouble! But I'll wageryou anything that your simple school-girl is the author!"
He went back then and there to the office of his big newspaper andwrote a guarded little note as follows:--
"DEAR MISS ARMITAGE,
I wonder if you remember a
grumpy old fellow who travelled with you onyour first journey to London rather more than a year ago? You nevertold me your name, but I kept a note of the address you gave through meto your taxi-driver, and through that address I have just by chanceheard that you and the Miss Armitage who corrected the proofs of awonderful book recently published are one and the same person. May Icall 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 foryour thought of me. But I hope you will not think me rude if I ask younot to call. I am living as a paying guest with an old lady whosehealth 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 himselffor his own temerity. "Who is it says a woman cannot keep a secret? Shecan, and will, and does!--when it suits her to do so! Never mind, MissArmitage! I shall find you out when, you least expect it--never fear!"
Meanwhile Miss Leigh's little house in Kensington was the scene ofmingled confusion and triumph. The "paying guest"--the littleunobtrusive girl, with all her wardrobe in a satchel and her legacy offour hundred pounds in bank-notes tucked into her bosom--had achieveda success beyond her wildest dreams, and now had only to declare heridentity to become a "celebrity." Miss Lavinia had been for some daysin a state of nervous excitement, knowing that it was Innocent's firstliterary effort which had created such a sensation. By this time shehad 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 thehandsome man whose portrait stood on the silent harpsichord. For she inher turn had discovered Miss Lavinia's secret,--how the dear lady'sheart had been devoted to Pierce Armitage all her life, and how whenshe knew he had been drawn away from her and captivated by anotherwoman her happiness had been struck down and withered like a floweringrose in a hard gale of wind. For this romance, and the disillusion shehad suffered, Innocent loved her. The two had become fast friends,almost like devoted mother and daughter. Miss Leigh was, as she hadstated in her "Morning Post" advertisement, well-connected, and she didmuch for the girl who had by chance brought a new and thrillinginterest into her life--more than Innocent could possibly have done forherself. The history of the child,--as much as she was told of it,--whohad been left so casually at a country farm on the mere chance of itsbeing kept and taken care of, affected her profoundly, and whenInnocent confided to her the fact that she had never been baptised, thegentle old lady was moved to tears. No time was lost in lifting thisspiritual ban from the young life concerned, and the sacred rite wasperformed quietly one morning in the church which Miss Leigh hadattended for many years, Miss Leigh having herself explained beforehandsome of the circumstances to the Vicar, and standing as god-mother tothe newly-received little Christian. And though there had arisen somequestion as to the name by which she should be baptised, Miss Leighheld 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 yousome day, that name might waken his memory and lead him to identifyyou. 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 airedhis 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 canalways call yourself 'Ena' for short if you like--but 'Innocent' is theprettier name."
And so "Innocent" it was,--and by the sprinkling of water and theblessing of the Church the name was finally bestowed and sanctified.Innocent herself was peacefully glad of her newly-attained spiritualdignity and called Miss Lavinia her "fairy god-mother."
"Do you mind?" she asked, coaxingly. "It makes me so happy to feel thatyou are one of those kind people in a fairy-tale, bringing good fortuneand blessing. I'm sure you ARE like that!"
Miss Lavinia protested against the sweet flattery, but all the same shewas pleased. She began to take the girl out with her to the houses ofvarious "great" personages--friends whom she knew well and who made anintimate little social circle of their own--"old-fashioned" peoplecertainly, but happily free from the sort of suppressed rowdyism whichdistinguishes the "nouveaux riches" of the present day,--people whoadhered rigidly to almost obsolete notions of honour and dignity, wholived simply and well within their means, who spoke reverently ofthings religious and believed in the old adage--"Manners makyth theman." So by degrees, Innocent found herself among a small choice "set"chiefly made up of the fragments of the real "old" aristocracy, towhich Miss Leigh herself belonged,--and, with her own quick intuitionand 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 beganto talk of it as something unusual and wonderful, she was moreterrified than pleased. Its success was greater than she had everdreamed of, and her one idea was to keep up the mystery of itsauthorship as long as possible, but every day made this more difficult.And when John Harrington wrote to her, she felt that disclosure wasimminent. She had always kept the visiting-card he had given her whenthey had travelled to London together, and she knew he belonged to thestaff of a great and leading newspaper,--he was a man not likely to bebaffled in any sort of enquiry he might choose to make. She thoughtabout this as she sat in her quiet little room, working at the last fewchapters of her second book which the publishers were eagerly waitingfor. What a magical change had been wrought in her life since she leftBriar Farm more than a year, aye,--nearly eighteen months ago! For onething, all fears of financial difficulty were at an end. Her first bookhad brought her more money than she had ever had in her life, and thepublisher's offer for her second outweighed her most ambitious desires.She was independent--she could earn sufficient, and more thansufficient to keep herself in positive luxury if she chose,--but forthis she had no taste. Her little rooms in Miss Leigh's house satisfiedall her ideas of rest and comfort, and she stayed on with the kind oldlady by choice and affection, helping her in many ways, and submittingto her guidance in every little social matter with the charminghumility of a docile and obedient spirit all too rare in these dayswhen youth is more full of effrontery than modesty. She had managed her"literary" business so far well and carefully, representing herself asthe private secretary of an author who wished to remain anonymous, andwho had gone abroad, entrusting her with his manuscript to "place" withany suitable firm that would make a suitable offer. The ruse wouldhardly have succeeded in the case of any ordinary piece of work, butthe book itself was of too exceptional a quality to be passed over, andthe firm to which it was first offered recognised this and accepted itwithout parley, astute enough to see its possibilities and to risk itschances of success. And now she realised that her little plot might bediscovered any day, and that she would have to declare herself as thewriter 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!" shethought, with a smile and a half sigh.
Briar Farm seemed a long way off in these days. She had writtenoccasionally both to Priscilla and Robin Clifford; giving her addressand briefly stating that she had taken the name of Armitage, feelingthat she had no right to that of Jocelyn. But Priscilla could notwrite, and contented herself with sending her "dear love and duty anddo come back soon," through Robin, who answered for both in lettersthat were carefully
cold and restrained. Now that he knew where she washe made no attempt to visit her,--he was too grieved and disappointedat her continued absence, and deeply hurt at what he considered her"quixotic" conduct in adopting a different name,--an "alias" as hecalled it.
"You have separated yourself from your old home by your own choice inmore ways than one," he wrote, "and I see I have no right to criticiseyour actions. You are in a strange place and you have taken a strangename,--I cannot feel that you are Innocent,--the Innocent of our bygonehappy years! It is better I should not go and see you--not unless yousend for me, when, of course, I will come."
She was both glad and sorry for this,--she would have liked to see himagain, and yet!--well!--she knew instinctively that if they met, itwould only cause him fresh unhappiness. Her new life had bestowed newgrace on her personality--all the interior intellectual phases of hermind 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, shehad that compelling attraction about her which few can resist,--afascination far greater than mere physical perfection. No one couldhave called her actually beautiful,--hardly could it have been said shewas even "pretty"--but in her slight figure and intelligent face withits large blue-grey eyes half veiled under dreamy, drooping lids andlong lashes, there was a magnetic charm which was both sweet andpowerful. Moreover, she dressed well,--in quiet taste, with a carefulavoidance of anything foolish or eccentric in fashion, and wherever shewent she made her effect as a graceful young presence expressive ofrepose and harmony. She spoke delightfully,--in a delicious voice,attuned to the most melodious inflections, and her constant study ofthe finer literature of the past gave her certain ways of expressingherself in a manner so far removed from the abrupt slanginess commonlyused 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 andold she was declared "charming." Guarded and chaperoned by good oldMiss Lavinia Leigh, she had no cause to be otherwise than satisfiedwith her apparently reckless and unguided plunge into the mighty vortexof London,--some beneficent spirit had led her into a haven of safetyand 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 forthe four hundred pounds he left me to 'buy pretties' with I could nothave done anything. I have bought my 'pretties'!--not bridal ones--butthings so much better!"
As the memory of her "Dad" came over her, tears sprang to her eyes. Inher mind she saw the smooth green pastures round Briar Farm--thebeautiful old gabled house,--the solemn trees waving their branches inthe wind over the tomb of the "Sieur Amadis,"--the doves wheeling roundand round in the clear air, and her own "Cupid" falling like asnowflake from the roof to her caressing hand. All the old life ofcountry sights and sounds passed before her like a fair mirage, givingplace to dark days of sorrow, disillusion and loss,--the fleetingglimpse of her self-confessed "mother," Lady Maude Blythe,--and theknowledge she had so unexpectedly gained as to the actual identity ofher father--he, whose portrait was in the very house to which she hadcome through no more romantic means than a chance advertisement in the"Morning Post!" And Miss Lavinia--her "fairy godmother"--could she havefound 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 amHIS daughter," she said to herself, "I wonder if she will care for meless or more? But I must not tell her!--She says he was so good andnoble! It would break her heart to think he had done anything wrong--orthat he had deserted his child."
And so she held her peace on this point, though she was often temptedto break silence whenever Miss Leigh reverted to the story of her beingleft in such a casual, yet romantic way at Briar Farm.
"I wonder who the handsome man was, my dear?" she would query--"Perhapshe'll go back to the place and enquire for you. He may be some verygreat personage!"
And Innocent would smile and shake her head.
"I fear not, my godmother!" she would reply. "You must not have anyfairy dreams about me! I was just a deserted baby--not wanted in theworld--but the world may have to take me all the same!"
And her eyes would flash, and her sensitive mouth would quiver as thevision of fame like a mystical rainbow circled the heaven of heryouthful imagination--while Miss Leigh would sigh, and listen andwonder,--she, whose simple hope and faith had been centred in a lovewhich had proved false and vain,--praying that the girl might realiseher ambition without the wreckage and disillusion of her life.
One evening--an evening destined to mark a turning-point in Innocent'sdestiny--they went together to an "At Home" held at a beautiful studioin the house of an artist deservedly famous. Miss Leigh had a greattaste for pictures, no doubt fostered since the early days of herromantic attachment to a man who had painted them,--and she knew mostof the artists whose names were more or less celebrated in the modernworld. Her host on this special occasion was what is called a"fashionable" portrait painter,--from the Queen downwards he hadpainted 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 wasa 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 manyyears. Innocent loved going to his studio whenever her "godmother"would take her, and he, in his turn, found interest and amusement intalking to a girl who showed such a fresh, simple and unworldly nature,united to intelligence and perception far beyond her years. On theparticular evening in question the studio was full of notablepeople,--not uncomfortably crowded, but sufficiently so as to compose abrilliant effect of colour and movement--beautiful women in wonderfulattire fluttered to and fro like gaily-plumaged birds among theconventionally dark-clothed men who stood about in that aimless fashionthey so often affect when disinclined to talk or to make themselvesagreeable,--and there was a pleasantly subdued murmur ofvoices,--cultured voices, well-attuned, and incapable of breaking intothe sheep-like snigger or asinine bray. Innocent, keeping close besideher "god-mother," watched the animated scene with happy interest,unconscious that many of those present watched her in turn with a gooddeal of scarcely restrained curiosity. For, somehow or other, rumourhad whispered a flying word or two that it was possible she--evenshe--that young, childlike-looking creature--might be, and probably wasthe actual author of the clever book everybody was talking about, andthough no one had the hardihood to ask her point-blank if the reportwas true, people glanced at her inquisitively and murmured their"asides" of suggestion or incredulity, finding it difficult to believethat 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 andsweet and NON-literary, clad in a simple white gown made of some softlyclinging diaphanous material, wholly unadorned save by a small posy ofnatural roses at her bosom,--and as she stood a little apart from thethrong, several artists noticed the grace of her personality--oneespecially, a rather handsome man of middle age, who gazed at herobservantly and critically with a frank openness which, though bold,was scarcely rude. She caught the straight light of his keen blueeyes--and a thrill ran through her whole being, as though she had beensuddenly influenced by a magnetic current--then she flushed deeply asshe fancied she saw him smile. For the first time in her life she foundpleasure in the fact that a man had looked at her with plainly evincedadmiration in his fleeting glance,--and she watched him talking toseveral people who all seemed delighted and flattered by hisnotice--then he disappeared. Later on in the evening she asked her hostwho he was. The famous R.A. considered for a moment.
"Do you mean a man with rough dark hair and a youngish face?--rathergood-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 wouldbe flattered at your close observation of him! I think I knowhim,
--that is, I know him as much as he will let anybody know him--heis a curious fellow, but a magnificent painter--a real genius! He'shalf 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 hereyes,--she could not credit her own hearing. Amadis de Jocelyn!--thename of her old stone Knight of France, on his tomb at Briar Farm, withhis motto--"Mon coeur me soutien!"
"Amadis de Jocelyn!" she repeated, falteringly ... "Are you sure? ... Imean ... is that his name really? ... it's so unusual... so curious..."
"Yes--it IS curious"--agreed her host--"but it's quite a good oldFrench name, belonging to a good old French family. The Jocelyns borearms for the Duc d'Anjou in the reign of Queen Elizabeth--and this manis a sort of last descendant, very proud of his ancestry. I'll bringhim along and introduce him to you if you'll allow me."
Innocent murmured something--she scarcely knew what,--and in a fewminutes found herself giving the conventional bow in response to theformal words--"Miss Armitage, Mr. de Jocelyn"--and looking straight upat the blue eyes that a short while since had flashed an almostcompelling glance into her own. A strange sense of familiarity andrecognition moved her; something of the expression of her "Dad" was inthe face of this other Jocelyn of whom she knew nothing,--and her heartbeat so quickly that she could scarcely speak in answer when headdressed 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 thecorners 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 slightgesture of his hand towards their host, who had moved away,--"becausehe is the fashion. If he were NOT the fashion he might paint likeVelasquez 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 sortof 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 mannerof speech.
"Miss Leigh is my godmother," she said--"I call her my fairy godmotherbecause she is always so good and kind. There she is, standing by thatbig easel."
He looked in the direction indicated.
"Oh yes!--I see! A charming old lady! I love old ladies when they don'tpretend to be young. That white hair of hers is very picturesque! Soshe is your godmother!--and she takes care of you! Well! She might doworse!"
He ruffled his thick crop of hair and looked at her more or lessquizzically.
"You have an air of suppressed enquiry," he said--"There is somethingon your mind! You want to ask me a question--what is it?"
A soft colour flew over her cheeks--she was confused to find himreading her thoughts.
"It is really nothing!" she answered, quickly--"I was only wondering alittle 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 ofsuch a very medieval appellation! Is there another so endowed?"
"There WAS another--long, long ago"--and, unconsciously to herself herdelicate features softened into a dreamy and rapt expression as shespoke,--while her voice fell into its sweetest and most persuasivetone. "He was a noble knight of France, and he came over to Englandwith the Due d' Anjou when the great Elizabeth was Queen. He fell inlove with a very beautiful Court lady, who would not care for him atall,--so, as he was unhappy and broken-hearted, he went away fromLondon and hid himself from everybody in the far country. There hebought an old manor-house and called it Briar Farm--and he married afarmer's daughter and settled in England for good--and he had six sonsand daughters. And when he died he was buried on his own land--and hiseffigy is on his tomb--it was sculptured by himself. I used to putflowers 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 theSieur Amadis!"
She looked up with a serious, sweet luminance in her eyes--and he wassuddenly thrilled by her glance, and moved by a desire to turn herromantic idyll into something of reality. This feeling was merely thephysical one of an amorously minded man,--he knew, or thought he knew,women well enough to hold them at no higher estimate than that ofsex-attraction,--yet, with all the cynicism he had attained throughlong experience of the world and its ways, he recognised a charm inthis fair little creature that was strange and new and singularlyfascinating, while the exquisite modulations of her voice as she toldthe story of the old French knight, so simply yet so eloquently, gaveher 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 mostcurious, for your 'Sieur Amadis' must be the missing branch of my ownancestral 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 knoweverything--quickly!"
He smiled at her enthusiasm.
"We'll sit down here out of the crowd," he said,--and, taking her armgently, he guided her to a retired corner of the studio which wascurtained off to make a cosy and softly cushioned recess. "You havetold me half a romance! Perhaps I can supply the other half." Hepaused, looking at her, whimsically pleased to see the warm young bloodflushing her cheeks as he spoke, and her eyes drooping under hispenetrating gaze. "Long, long ago--as you put it--in the days of goodQueen Bess, there lived a certain Hugo de Jocelin, a nobleman ofFrance, famed for fierce deeds of arms, and for making himselfgenerally disagreeable to his neighbours with whom he was for ever atcross-purposes. This contentious personage had two sons,--Jeffrey andAmadis,--also knights-at-arms, inheriting the somewhat excitable natureof 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 ofnobles and gentles, when that 'petit grenouille' as he called himself,went to England to seek Queen Elizabeth's hand in marriage. The Dukefailed in his ambitious quest, as we all know, and many of hisattendants got scattered and dispersed,--among them Amadis, who wasentirely lost sight of, and never returned again to the home of hisfathers. He was therefore supposed to be dead--"
"MY Amadis!" murmured Innocent, her eyes shining like stars as shelistened.
"YOUR Amadis!--yes!" And his voice softened. "Of course he must havebeen YOUR Amadis!--your 'Knight of old and warrior bold!' Well! None ofhis own people ever heard of him again--and in the family tree he ismarked as missing. But Jeffrey stayed at home in France,--and in duecourse inherited his father's grim old castle and lands. He married,and had a large family,--much larger than the six olive-branchesallotted 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 ofraising her eyes to his face.
"It is wonderful!" she murmured--"I can hardly believe it possible thatI should meet here in London a real Jocelyn!--one of the family of theSieur Amadis!"
"Does it seem strange?" He laughed. "Oh no! Nothing is strange in thisqueer little world! But I don't quite know what the exact connection isbetween me and your knight--it's too difficult for me to grasp! Isuppose I'm a sort of great-great-great-grand-nephew! However, nothingcan 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 ofBriar Farm!"
"Ought I?" He was amused at her earnestness. "Why?"
"Because there is no direct heir now to the Sieur Amadis!" sheanswered, almost sadly. "His last descendant is dead. His name wasHugo--Hugo Jocelyn--and he was a farmer, and he left all he had to hisnephew, the only child of his sister who died before him. The nephew isvery good, and clever, too,--he was educated at Oxford,--but he is notan actually lineal descendant."
He laughed again, this time quite heartily, at the serious expressionof her face.
"That's very terrible!" he said. "I don't know when I've heard anythingso lamentable! And I'm afraid I can't put matters right! I should neverdo for a farmer--I'm a painter. I had better go down and see thisfamous old place, and the tomb of my ever so great-great-grand-uncle! Icould make a picture of it--I ought to do that, as it belonged to thefamily 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! Youshould 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 eyessparkling with a kind of mirthful ardour. "You are sure? Well, allhonour to him! And to YOU--for believing in him! I hope you'll considerme 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, shehesitated--"I mean--he taught me all I know. I studied all his oldbooks...."
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 tosupper?--I leave her in your charge."
"Miss Innocent?" repeated Jocelyn, doubtful as to whether this was saidby way of a joke or not.
"Yes--some people call her Ena--but her real name is Innocent. Isn'tit, little lady?"
She smiled and coloured. Jocelyn looked at her with a curiousintentness.
"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.