CHAPTER VI
One of the advantages or disadvantages of the way in which we live inthese modern days is that we are ceasing to feel. That is to say we donot permit ourselves to be affected by either death or misfortune,provided these natural calamities leave our own persons unscathed. Weare beginning not to understand emotion except as a phase of badmanners, and we cultivate an apathetic, soulless indifference to eventsof great moment whether triumphant or tragic, whenever they do notinvolve our own well-being and creature comforts. Whole boatloads offishermen may go forth to their doom in the teeth of a gale withoutmoving us to pity so long as we have our well-fried sole or grilled codfor breakfast,--and even such appalling disasters as the wickedassassination of hapless monarchs, or the wrecks of palatialocean-liners with more than a thousand human beings all whelmed at oncein the pitiless depths of the sea, leave us cold, save for theuplifting of our eyes and shoulders during an hour or so,--anexpression of slight shock, followed by forgetfulness. Air-men,recklessly braving the spaces of the sky, fall headlong, and aresmashed to mutilated atoms every month or so, without rousing us tomore than a passing comment, and a chorus of "How dreadful!" fromsimpering women,--and the greatest and best man alive cannot hope forlong remembrance by the world at large when he dies. Shakespearerecognised this tendency in callous human nature when he made hisHamlet say--
"O heavens! Die two months ago and not forgotten yet? Then there's hopea great man's memory may outlive his life half a year, but by 'r lady,he must build churches then, or else shall he suffer not thinking on."
Wives recover the loss of their husbands with amazingrapidity,--husbands "get over" the demise of their wives with thegalloping ease of trained hunters leaping an accustomed fence--familiesforget their dead as resolutely as some debtors forget theirbills,--and to express sorrow, pity, tenderness, affection, or any sortof "sentiment" whatever is to expose one's self to derision andcontempt from the "normal" modernist who cultivates cynicism as a fineart. Many of us elect to live, each one, in a little back-yard gardenof selfish interests--walled round carefully, and guarded againstpossible intrusion by uplifted spikes of conventionalism,--the door iskept jealously closed--and only now and then does some impulsive spiritbolder than the rest, venture to put up a ladder and peep over thewall. Shut in with various favourite forms of hypocrisy and cowardice,each little unit passes its short life in mistrusting its neighbourunit, and death finds none of them wiser, better or nearer the utmostgood than when they were first uselessly born.
Among such vain and unprofitable atoms of life Lady Maude Blythe hadbeen one of the vainest and most unprofitable,--though of such "social"importance as to be held in respectful awe by tuft-hunters andparasites, who feed on the rich as the green-fly feeds on the rose. Thenews of her sudden death briefly chronicled by the fashionableintelligence columns of the press with the usual--"We deeplyregret"--created no very sorrowful sensation--a few vapid people idlyremarked to one another--"Then her great ball won't comeoff!"--somewhat as if she had retired into the grave to avoid thetrouble and expense of the function. Cards inscribed--"Sympathy andkind enquiries"--were left for Lord Blythe in the care of his dignifiedbutler, who received them with the impassiveness of a Buddhist idol anddeposited them all on the orthodox salver in the hall--and a fewmessages of "Deeply shocked and grieved. Condolences"--by wires, notexceeding sixpence each, were despatched to the lonely widower,--butbeyond these purely formal observances, the handsome brilliant societywoman dropped out of thought and remembrance as swiftly as a dead leafdrops from a tree. She had never been loved, save by her two deludeddupes--Pierce Armitage and her husband,--no one in the whole wide rangeof her social acquaintance would have ever thought of feeling theslightest affection for her. The first announcement of her deathappeared in an evening paper, stating the cause to be an accidentaloverdose of veronal taken to procure sleep, and Miss Leigh, seeing theparagraph by merest chance, gave a shocked exclamation--
"Innocent! My dear!--how dreadful! That poor Lady Blythe we saw theother night is dead!"
The girl was standing by the tea-table just pouring out a cup of teafor Miss Leigh--she started so nervously that the cup almost fell fromher hand.
"Dead!" she repeated, in a low, stifled voice. "Lady Blythe? Dead?"
"Yes!--it is awful! That horrid veronal! Such a dangerous drug! Itappears she was accustomed to take it for sleep--and unfortunately shetook an over-dose. How terrible for Lord Blythe!"
Innocent sat down, trembling. Her gaze involuntarily wandered to theportrait of Pierce Armitage--the lover of the dead woman, and herfather! The handsome face with its dreamy yet proud eyes appearedconscious of her intense regard--she looked and looked, and longed tospeak--to tell Miss Leigh all--but something held her silent. She hadher own secret now--and it restrained her from disclosing the secretsof others. Nor could she realise that it was her mother--actually herown mother--who had been taken so suddenly and tragically from theworld. The news barely affected her--nor was this surprising, seeingthat she had never entirely grasped the fact of her mother'spersonality or existence at all. She had felt no emotion concerningher, save of repulsion and dislike. Her unexpected figure had appearedon the scene like a strange vision, and now had vanished from it asstrangely. Innocent was in very truth "motherless"--but so she hadalways been--for a mother who deserts her child is worse than a motherdead. Yet it was some few minutes before she could control herselfsufficiently to speak or look calmly--and her eyes were downcast asMiss Leigh came up to the tea-table, newspaper in hand, to discuss thetragic incident.
"She was a very brilliant woman in society," said the gentle old lady,then--"You did not know her, of course, and you could not judge of herby seeing her just one evening. But I remember the time when she wasmuch talked of as 'the beautiful Maude Osborne'--she was a verylively, wilful girl, and she had been rather neglected by her parents,who left her in England in charge of some friends while they were inIndia. I think she ran rather wild at that time. There was some talk ofher having gone off secretly somewhere with a lover--but I neverbelieved the story. It was a silly scandal--and of course it stoppeddirectly she married Lord Blythe. He gave her a splendid position,--andhe was devoted to her--poor man!"
"Yes?" murmured Innocent, mechanically. She did not know what to say.
"If she had been blessed with children--or even one child," went onMiss Leigh--"I think it would have been better for her. I am sure shewould have been happier! He would, I feel certain!"
"No doubt!" the girl answered in the same quiet tone.
"My dear, you look very pale!" said Miss Leigh, with some anxiety--"Haveyou been working too hard?"
She smiled.
"That would be impossible!" she answered. "I could not work toohard--it is such happiness to work--one forgets!--yes--one forgets allthat one does not wish to remember!"
The anxious expression still remained on Miss Lavinia's face,--but,true to the instincts of an old-fashioned gentlewoman, she did notpress enquiries where she saw they might be embarrassing or unwelcome.And though she now loved Innocent as much as if she had been her ownchild, she never failed to remember that after all, the girl had earnedher own almost wealthy independence, and was free to do as she likedwithout anybody's control or interference, and that though she was soyoung she was bound to be in all respects untrammelled in her life andactions. She went where she pleased--she had her own little hiredmotor-brougham--she also had many friends who invited her out withoutincluding Miss Leigh in the invitations, and she was still the "payingguest" at the little Kensington house,--a guest who was never tired ofdoing kindly and helpful deeds for the benefit of the sweet old womanwho was her hostess. Once or twice Miss Leigh had made a fainthalf-hearted protest against her constant and lavish generosity.
"My dear," she had said--"With all the money you earn now you couldlive in a much larger house--you could indeed have a house of your own,with many more luxuries--why do you stay here, showering advantages onme, who am nothing but a prosy old body?--you co
uld do much better!"
"Could I really?" And Innocent had laughed and kissed her. "Well!--Idon't want to do any better--I'm quite happy as I am. One thingis--(and you seem to forget it!)--that I'm very fond of you!--and whenI'm very fond of a person it's difficult to shake me off!"
So she stayed on--and lived her life with a nun-like simplicity andeconomy--spending her money on others rather than herself, and helpingthose in need,--and never even in her dress, which was alwaysexquisite, running into vagaries of extravagance and follies offashion. She had discovered a little French dressmaker, whose husbandhad deserted her, leaving her with two small children to feed andeducate, and to this humble, un-famous plier of the needle sheentrusted her wardrobe with entirely successful results. Worth, Paquin,Doucet and other loudly advertised personages were all quoted as"creators" of her gowns, whereat she was amused.
"A little personal taste and thought go so much further in dress thanmoney," she was wont to say to some of her rather envious womenfriends. "I would rather copy the clothes in an old picture than theclothes in a fashion book."
Odd fancies about her dead mother came to her when she was alone in herown room--particularly at night when she said her prayers. Somemysterious force seemed compelling her to offer up a petition for thepeace of her mother's soul,--she knew from the old books written by the"Sieur Amadis" that to do this was a custom of his creed. She missed itout of the Church of England Prayer-book, though she dutifully followedthe tenets of the faith in which Miss Leigh had had her baptised andconfirmed--but in her heart of hearts she thought it good and right topray for the peace of departed souls--
"For who can tell"--she would say to herself--"what strange confusionand sorrow they may be suffering!--away from all that they once knewand cared for! Even if prayers cannot help them it is kind to pray!"
And for her mother's soul she felt a dim and far-off sense ofpity--almost a fear, lest that unsatisfied spirit might be lost andwandering in a chaos of dark experience without any clue to guide orany light to shine upon its dreadful solitude. So may the dead comenearer to the living than when they also lived!
Some three or four weeks after Lady Blythe's sudden exit from a worldtoo callous to care whether she stayed in it or went from it, LordBlythe called at Miss Leigh's house and asked to see her. He wasadmitted at once, and the pretty old lady came down in a great flutterto the drawing-room to receive him. She found him standing in front ofthe harpsichord, looking at the portrait upon it. He turned quicklyround as she entered and spoke with some abruptness.
"I must apologise for calling rather late in the afternoon," hesaid--"But I could not wait another day. I have something important totell you--" He paused--then went on--"It's rather startling to me tofind that portrait here!--I knew the man. Surely it is Pierce Armitage,the painter?"
"Yes"--and Miss Leigh's eyes opened in a little surprise andbewilderment--"He was a great friend of mine--and of yours?" "He was mycollege chum"--and he walked closer to the picture and looked at itsteadfastly--"That must have been taken when he was quite a youngman--before--" He paused again,--then said with a forcedsmile--"Talking of Armitage--is Miss Armitage in?"
"No, she is not"--and the old lady looked regretful--"She has gone outto tea--I'm sorry--"
"It's just as well"--and Lord Blythe took one or two restless paces upand down the little room--"I would rather talk to you alone first.Yes!--that portrait of Pierce must have been taken in early days--justabout the time he ran away with Maude Osborne--"
Miss Leigh gazed at him enquiringly.
"With Maude Osborne?"
"Yes--with Maude Osborne, who afterwards became my wife."
Miss Leigh trembled and drew back, looking about her in a dazed way asthough seeking for some place to hide in. Lord Blythe saw her agitation.
"I'm afraid I'm worrying you!" he said, kindly. "Sit down,please,"--and he placed a chair for her. "We are both elderly folk andshocks are not good for us. There!"--and he took her hand and patted itgently--"As I was saying, that portrait must have been taken aboutthen--did he give it to you?"
"Yes," she answered, faintly--"He did. We were engaged--"
"Engaged! Good God! You?--to Pierce?--My dear lady, forgive me!--I'mvery sorry!--I had no idea--"
But Miss Leigh composed herself very quickly.
"Please do not mind me!" she said--"It all happened so very long ago!Yes--Pierce Armitage and I were engaged--but he suddenly went away--andI was told he had gone with some very beautiful girl he had fallen headover ears in love with--and I never saw him again. But I neverreproached him--I--I loved him too well!"
Silently Lord Blythe took the worn little hand and raised it to hislips.
"Pierce was more cruel than I thought was possible to him"--he said, atlast, very gently--"But--you have the best of him with you in--hisdaughter!"
"His daughter!"
She sprang up, white and scared.
He gripped her arm and held it fast to support her.
"Yes," he said--"His daughter! That is what I have come to tell you!The girl who lives with you--the famous author whose name is just nowringing through the world is his child!--and her mother was my wife!"
There was a little stifled cry--she dropped back in her chair andcovered her face with her hands to hide the tears that rushed to hereyes.
"Innocent!" she murmured, sobbingly--"His child!--Innocent!"
He was silent, watching her, his own heart deeply moved. He thought ofher life of unbroken fidelity--wasted in its youth--solitary in itsage--all for the sake of one man. Presently, mastering her quietweeping, she looked up.
"Does she--the dear girl!--does she know this?" she asked, in a halfwhisper.
"She has known it all the time," he answered--"She knew who her motherwas before she came to London--but she kept her own counsel--I think tosave the honour of all concerned. And she has made her name famous toescape the reproach of birth which others fastened upon her. A bravechild!--it must have been strange to her to find her father's portraithere--did you ever speak of him to her?"
"Often!" replied Miss Leigh. "She knows all my story!"
He smiled, very kindly
"No wonder she was silent!" he said.
Just then they heard the sound of a latch-key turning in the lock ofthe hall door--there was a light step in the passage--they looked atone another half in wonder, half in doubt. A moment more and Innocententered, radiant and smiling. She stopped on the threshold, amazed atthe sight of Lord Blythe.
"Why, godmother"--she began. Then, glancing from one to the other, hercheeks grew pale--she hesitated, instinctively guessing at the truth.Lord Blythe advanced and took her gently by both hands.
"Dear child, your secret is ours!" he said, quietly. "Miss Leigh knows,and _I_ know that you are the daughter of Pierce Armitage, and thatyour mother was my late wife. No one can be dearer to us both than youare--for your father's sake!"