CHAPTER X
Lord Blythe stood at the open window of his sitting-room in the GrandHotel at Bellaggio--a window opening out to a broad balcony andcommanding one of the most enchanting views of the lake and mountainsever created by Divine Beneficence for the delight of man. The heavenlyscene, warm with rich tints of morning in Italy, glowed like a jewel inthe sun: picturesque boats with little red and blue awnings rocked atthe edge of the calm lake, in charge of their bronzed and red-cappedboatmen, waiting for hire,--the air was full of fragrance, and everyvisible thing appealed to beauty-loving eyes with exquisite andirresistible charm. His attention, however, had wandered far from theenjoyable prospect,--he was reading and re-reading a letter he had justreceived from Miss Leigh, in which certain passages occurred whichcaused him some uneasiness. On leaving England he had asked her towrite regularly, giving him all the news of Innocent, and she hadreadily undertaken what to her was a pleasing duty. His thoughts wereconstantly with the little house in Kensington, where the youngdaughter of his dead friend worked so patiently to bring forth thefruits of her genius and live independently by their results, and hisintense sympathy for the difficult position in which she had beenplaced through no fault of her own and the courage with which she hadsurmounted it, was fast deepening into affection. He rather encouragedthis sentiment in himself with the latent hope that possibly when hereturned to England she might still be persuaded to accept the positionhe was so ready to offer her--that of daughter to him and heiress,--andjust now he was troubled by an evident anxiety which betrayed itself inMiss Leigh's letter--anxiety which she plainly did her best to conceal,but which nevertheless made itself apparent.
"The dear child works incessantly," she wrote, "but she is very quietand seems easily tired. She is not as bright as she used to be, andlooks very pale, so that I fear she is doing too much, though she saysshe is perfectly well and happy. We had a call from Mr. John Harringtonthe other afternoon--I think you know him--and he seemed quite to thinkwith me that she is over-working herself. He suggested that I shouldpersuade her to go for a change somewhere, either with me or with otherfriends. I wonder if you would care for us to join you at the ItalianLakes? If you would I might be able to manage it. I have not mentionedthe idea to her yet, as I know she is finishing some work--but shetells me it will all be done in a few days, and that then she will takea rest. I hope she will, for I'm sure she needs it."
Another part of the letter ran as follows:--
"I rather hesitate to mention it, but I think so many prolongedsittings for her portrait to that painter with the strange name, Amadisde Jocelyn, have rather tired her out. The picture is finished now, andI and a few friends went to see it the other day. It is a mostbeautiful portrait, but very sad!--and it is wonderful how the likenessof her father as he was in his young days comes out in her face! Sheand Mr. de Jocelyn are very intimate friends--and some people say he isin love with her! Perhaps he may be!--but I do hope she is not in lovewith HIM!"
Lord Blythe took off his spectacles, folded up the letter and put it inhis pocket. Then he looked out towards the lake and the charmingpicture it presented. How delightful it would be to see Innocent in oneof those dainty boats scattered about near the water's edge, revellingwith all the keenness of a bright, imaginative temperament in thenatural loveliness around her! Young, and with the promise of abrilliant career opening out before her, happiness seemed ready andwaiting to bless and to adorn the life of the little deserted girl who,left alone in the world, had nevertheless managed to win the world'shearing through the name she had made for herself--yet now--yes!--nowthere was the cruel suggestion of a shadow--an ugly darkness like ablack cloud, blotting the fairness of a blue sky,--and Blythe felt anuncomfortable sense of premonition and wrong as the thought of Amadisde Jocelyn came into his head and stayed there. What was he that heshould creep into the unspoiled sphere of a woman's opening life? Apainter, something of a genius in his line, but erratic and unstable inhis character,--known more or less for several "affairs of gallantry"which had slipped off his easy conscience like water off a duck'sback,--not a highly cultured man by any means, because ignorant of manyof the finer things in art and letters, and without any positivelyassured position. Yet, undoubtedly a man of strong physical magnetismand charm--fascinating in his manner, especially on first acquaintance,and capable of overthrowing many a stronger citadel than the tenderheart of a sensitive girl like Innocent, who by a most curiousmischance had been associated all her life with the romance of hismedieval name and lineage.
"Yes--of course she must come out here," Blythe decided, after a fewminutes' cogitation. "I'll send a wire to Miss Leigh this morning andfollow it up by a letter to the child herself, urging her to join me.The change and distraction will perhaps save her from too muchassociation with Jocelyn,--I do not trust that man--never have trustedhim! Poor little girl! She shall not have her spirit broken if I canhelp it."
He stayed yet another few minutes at the open window, and taking out acigar from his case began to light it. While doing this his eye wassuddenly caught by the picturesque, well-knit figure of a man sittingeasily on a step near the clustering boats gathered close to thehotel's special landing place. He was apparently one of the manyroad-side artists one meets everywhere about the Italian Lakes, readyto paint a sunset or moonlight on Como or Maggiore on commission atshort notice for a few francs. He was not young--his white hair andgrizzled moustache marked the unpleasing passage of resistlesstime,--yet there was something lissom and graceful about him thatsuggested a kind of youth in age. His attire consisted of much wornbrown trousers and a loose white shirt kept in place by a redbelt,--his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, displaying thinbrown muscular arms, expressive of energy, and he wore a battered brownhat which might once have been of the so-called "Homburg" shape, butwhich now resembled nothing ever seen in the way of ordinary head-gear.He was busily engaged in sketching a view of the lake and the oppositemountains, evidently to the order of some fashionably dressed women whostood near him watching the rapid and sure movements of his brush--hehad his box of water-colours beside him, and smiled and talked as heworked. Lord Blythe watched him with lively interest, while enjoyingthe first whiffs of his lately lit cigar.
"A clever chap, evidently!" he thought. "These Italians are all artistsand poets at heart. When those women have finished with him I'll gethim to do a sketch for me to send to Innocent--just to show her theloveliness of the place. She'll be delighted! and it may tempt her tocome here."
He waited a few minutes longer, till he saw the artist hand over thecompleted drawing to his lady patrons, one of whom paid him with ahandful of silver coin. Something in the bearing and attitude of theman as he rose from the step where he had been seated and lifted hisshapeless brown hat to his customers in courteous acknowledgment oftheir favours as they left him, struck Blythe with an odd sense offamiliarity.
"I must have seen him somewhere before," he thought. "In Venice,perhaps--or Florence--these fellows are like gipsies, they wander abouteverywhere."
He sauntered out of the Hotel into the garden and from the garden downto the landing-place, where he slowly approached the artist, who wasstanding with his back towards him, slipping his lately earned francsinto his trouser pocket. Several sample drawings were set up in viewbeside him,--lovely little studies of lake and mountain which wouldhave done honour to many a Royal Academician, and Blythe paused,looking at these with wonder and admiration before speaking, unawarethat the artist had taken a backward glance at him of swift and more orless startled recognition.
"You are an admirable painter, my friend!" he said, at last--speakingin Italian of which he was a master. "Your drawings are worth much morethan you are asking for them. Will you do one specially for me?"
"I've done a good many for you in my time, Blythe!" was thehalf-laughing answer, given in perfect English. "But I don't mind doinganother."
And he turned round, pushing his cap off his brows, and showing awonderfully handsome face, worn with ye
ars and privation, but fine andnoble-featured and full of the unquenchable light which is given by anindomitable and enduring spirit.
Lord Blythe staggered back and caught at the handrail of the landingsteps to save himself from falling.
"My God!" he gasped. "You! You, of all men in the world! You!--you,Pierce Armitage!"
And he stared wildly, his brain swimming,--his pulses beatinghammer-strokes--was it--could it be possible? The artist in browntrousers and white shirt straightened himself, and instinctively soughtto assume a less tramp-like appearance, looking at his former friendmeanwhile with a half-glad, half-doubtful air.
"Well, well, Dick!" he said, after a moment's pause--"Don't take itbadly that you find me pursuing my profession in this peripateticstyle! It's a nice life--better than being a pavement artist inPimlico! You mustn't be afraid! I'm not going to claim acquaintancewith you before the public eye--you, a peer of the realm, Dick! No, no!I won't shame you..."
"Shame me!" Blythe sprang forward and caught his hand in a close warmgrip. "Never say that, Pierce! You know me better! Thank God you arehere--alive!--thank God I have met you!--"
He stopped, too overcome to say another word, and wrung the hand heheld with unconscious fervour, tears springing to his eyes. The twolooked full at each other, and Armitage smiled a little confusedly.
"Why, Dick!" he began,--then turning his head quickly he glanced up atthe clear blue sky to hide and to master his own emotion--"I believe wefeel like a couple of sentimental undergrads still, Dick in spite ofage and infirmities!"
He laughed forcedly, while Blythe, at last releasing his hand, took himby the arm, regardless of the curious observation of some of the hotelguests who were strolling about the garden and terraces.
"Come with me, Pierce," he said, in hurried nervous accents--"I havenews for you--such news as you cannot guess or imagine. Put away allthose drawings and come inside the hotel--to my room--" "What? In thisguise?" and Armitage shook his head--"My dear fellow, your enthusiasmis running away with you! Besides--there is some one else to consider--"
"Some one else? Whom do you mean?" demanded Blythe with visibleimpatience.
Armitage hesitated.
"Your wife," he said, at last.
Blythe looked him steadily in the eyes.
"My wife is dead."
"Dead!" Armitage loosened his arm from the other's hold, and stoodinert as though he had received a numbing blow. "Dead! When did shedie?"
In a few words Blythe told him.
Armitage heard in silence. Mechanically he began to collect hisdrawings and put them in a portfolio. His face was pale under itssun-browned tint,--his expression almost tragic. Lord Blythe watchedhim for a moment, moved by strong heart-beats of affection andcompassion.
"Pierce," he then said, in a low tone--"I know everything!"
Armitage turned on him sharply.
"You--you know?--What?--How?--"
"She--Maude--told me all," said Blythe, gently--"And I think--yourwrong to her--was not so blameworthy as her wrong to you! But I havesomething to tell you of one whose wrong is greater than hers oryours--one who is Innocent!"
He emphasised the name, and Armitage started as though struck with awhip.
"Innocent!" he muttered--"The child--yes!--but I couldn't make enoughto send money for it after a while--I paid as long as I could--"
He trembled,--his fine eyes had a strained look of anguish in them.
"Not dead too?" he said--"Surely not--the people at the farm had a goodname--they would not be cruel to a child--"
Blythe gripped him by the arm.
"Come," he said--"We cannot talk here--there are too many peopleabout--I must have you to myself. Never mind your appearance--many anR. A. cuts a worse figure than you do for the sake of 'pose'! You areentirely picturesque"--and he relieved his pent-up feelings by alaugh--"And there's nothing strange in your coming to my room to seethe particular view I want from my windows."
Thus persuaded, Armitage gathered his drawings and painting materialstogether, and followed his friend, who quickly led the way into theHotel. The gorgeously liveried hall-porter nodded familiarly to theartist, whom he had seen for several seasons selling his work on thelanding, and made a good-natured comment on his "luck" in havingsecured the patronage of a rich English "Milor," but otherwise littlenotice was taken of the incongruous couple as they passed up the stairsto "Milor's" private rooms on the first floor, where, as soon as theyentered, Blythe shut and locked the door.
"Now, Pierce, I have you!" he said, affectionately taking him by theshoulders and pushing him towards a chair. "Why, in heaven's name, didyou never let me know you were alive? Everyone thought you were deadyears and years ago!"
Armitage sat down, and taking off his cap, passed his hand through histhick crop of silvery hair.
"I spread that report myself," he said. "I wanted to get out of itall--to give up!--to forget that such a place as London existed. I wassick to death of it!--of its conventions, and vile hypocrisies--its'bounders' in art as in everything else!--besides, I should have beenin the way--Maude was tired of me--"
He broke off, with an abstracted look.
"You know all about it, you say?" he went on after a pause--"She toldyou--"
"She told me the night she died," answered Blythe quietly--"After asilence of nearly twenty years!"
Armitage gave a short, sharp sigh. "Women are strange creatures!" hesaid. "I don't think they know when they are loved. I loved her--muchmore than she knew,--she seemed to me the most beautiful thing onearth!--and when she asked me to run away with her--"
"She asked you?"
"Yes--of course! Do you think I would have taken her against her ownwish and will? She suggested and planned the whole thing--and I was madfor her at the time--even now those weeks we passed together seem to methe only real living of my life! I thought she loved me as I lovedher--and if she had married me, as I begged her to do, I believe Ishould have done something as a painter,--something great, I mean. Butshe got tired of my 'art-jargon,' as she called it--and she couldn'tbear the idea of having to rough it a bit before I could hope to makeany large amount of money. Then I was disappointed--and I told herso--and SHE was disappointed, and she told ME so--and wequarrelled--but when I heard a child was to be born, I urged her againto marry me--"
"And she refused?" interposed Blythe.
"She refused. She said she intended to make a rich marriage and live inluxury. And she declared that if I ever loved her at all, the only wayto prove it was to get rid of the child. I don't think she would havecared if I had been brute enough to kill it."
Blythe gave a gesture of horror.
"Don't say that, man! Don't think it!"
Armitage sighed.
"Well, I can't help it, Blythe! Some women go callous when they've hadtheir fling. Maude was like that. She didn't care for me any more,--shesaw nothing in front of her but embarrassment and trouble if her affairwith me was found out--and as it was all in my hands I did the best Icould think of,--took the child away and placed it with kind countryfolks--and removed myself from England and out of Maude's wayaltogether. The year after I came abroad I heard she had marriedyou,--rather an unkind turn of fate, you being my oldest friend! andthis was what made me resolve to 'die'--that is, to be reported dead,so that she might have no misgivings about me or my turning upunexpectedly to cause you any annoyance. I determined to lose myselfand my name too--no one knows me here as Pierce Armitage,--I'm PietroCorri for all the English amateur art-lovers in Italy!"
He laughed rather bitterly.
"I think I lost a good deal more than myself and my name!" he went on."I believe if I had stayed in England I should have won something of areputation. But--you see, I really loved Maude--in a stupid man's wayof love,--I didn't want to worry her or remind her of her phase ofyouthful madness with me--or cause scandal to her in any way--"
"But did you ever think of the child?" interrupted Blythe, suddenly.
Armitage looked up.
> "Think of it? Of course I did! The place where I left it was calledBriar Farm,--a wonderful old sixteenth-century house--I made a drawingof it once when the apple-blossom was out--and the owner of it, knownas Farmer Jocelyn, had a wonderful reputation in the neighbourhood forintegrity and kindness. I left the child with him--one stormy night inautumn--saying I would come back for it--of course I never did--but fortwelve years I sent money for it from different places in Europe--andbefore I left England I told Maude where it was, in case she everwanted to see it--not that such an idea would ever occur to her! Ithought the probabilities were that the farmer, having no children ofhis own, would be likely to adopt the one left on his hands, and thatshe would grow up a happy, healthy country lass, without a care, andmarry some good, sound, simple rustic fellow. But you know everything,I suppose!--or so your looks imply. Is the child alive?"
Lord Blythe held up his hand.
"Now, Pierce, it is my turn," he said--"Your share in the story Ialready knew in part--but one thing you have not told me--one wrong youhave not confessed."
"Oh, there are a thousand wrongs I have committed," said Armitage, witha slight, weary gesture. "Life and love have both disappointed me--andI suppose when that sort of thing happens a man goes more or less tothe dogs--"
"Life and love have disappointed a good many folks," saidBlythe--"Women perhaps more than men. And one woman especially, whohardly merited disappointment--one who loved you very truly,Pierce!--have you any idea who it is I mean?"
Armitage moved restlessly,--a slight flush coloured his face.
"You mean Lavinia Leigh?" he said--"Yes--I behaved like a cad. I knowit! But--I could not help myself. Maude drew me on with her lovely eyesand smile! And to think she is dead!--all that beauty in thegrave!--cold and mouldering!" He covered his eyes with one hand, and avisible tremor shook him. "Somehow I have always fancied her as youngas ever and endowed with a sort of earthly immortality! She was sobright, so imperious, so queen-like! You ask me why I did not let youknow I was living? Blythe, I would have died in very truth by my ownhand rather than trouble her peace in her married life with you!" Hepaused--then glanced up at his friend, with the wan flicker of asmile--"And--do you know Lavinia Leigh?"
"I do," answered Blythe--"I know and honour her! And--your daughter iswith her now!"
Armitage sprang up.
"My daughter! With Lavinia! No!--impossible--incredible!--"
"Sit down again, Pierce," and Lord Blythe himself drew up a chair closeto Armitage--"Sit down and be patient! You know the lines--'There's adivinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will'? Divinityhas worked in strange ways with you, Pierce!--and still more strangelywith your child. Will you listen while I tell you all?"
Armitage sank into his chair,--his hands trembled--he was greatlyagitated,--and his eyes were fixed on his friend's face in an eagerpassion of appeal.
"I will listen as if you were an angel speaking, Dick!" he said. "Letme know the worst!--or the best--of everything!"
And Blythe, in a low quiet voice, thrilled in its every accent by theaffection and sympathy of his honest spirit, told him the whole storyof Innocent--of her sweetness and prettiness--of her grace andgenius--of the sudden and brilliant fame she had won as "EnaArmitage"--of the brief and bitter knowledge she had been given of hermother--of her strange chance in going straight to the house of MissLeigh when she travelled alone and unguided from the country toLondon--and lastly of his own admiration for her courage andindependence, and his desire to adopt her as a daughter in order toleave her his fortune.
"But now you have turned up, Pierce, I resign my hopes in thatdirection!" he concluded, with a smile. "You are her father!--and youmay well be proud of such a daughter! And there is a duty staring youin the face--a duty towards her which, when once performed, willrelease her from a good deal of pain and perplexity--you know what itis?"
"Rather!" and Armitage rose and began pacing to and fro--"Toacknowledge and legalise her as my child! I can do this now--and Iwill! I can declare she was born in wedlock, now Maude is dead--for noone will ever know. The real identity of her mother"--he paused andcame up to Blythe, resting his hands on his shoulders--"the realidentity of her mother is and shall ever be OUR secret!"
There was a pause. Then Armitage's mellow musical voice again broke thesilence.
"I can never thank you, Blythe!" he said--"You blessed old man as youare! You seem to me like a god disguised in a tweed suit! You havechanged life for me altogether! I must cease to be a wandering scamp onthe face of the earth!--I must try to be worthy of my fair and famousdaughter! How strange it seems! Little Innocent!--the poor baby I leftto the mercies of a farm-yard training!--for her I must becomerespectable! I think I'll even try to paint a great picture, so thatshe isn't ashamed of her Dad! What do you say? Will you help me?"
He laughed,--but there were great tears in his eyes. They clasped handssilently.
Then Lord Blythe spoke in a light tone.
"I'll wire to Miss Leigh this morning," he said. "I'll ask her to comeout here with Innocent as soon as possible. I won't break the news ofYOU to them yet--it would quite overpower Miss Leigh--it might almostkill her--"
"Why, how?" asked Armitage.
"With joy!" answered Blythe. "Hers is a faithful soul!"
He waited a moment--then went on:
"I'll prepare the way cautiously in a letter--it would never do toblurt the whole thing out at once. I'll tell Innocent I have a verygreat and delightful surprise awaiting her--"
"Oh, very great and delightful indeed!" echoed Armitage with a sadlittle laugh. "The discovery of a tramp father with only a couple ofshirts to his back and a handful of francs in his pocket!"
"My dear chap, what does that matter?" and Blythe gave him a lightfriendly blow on the shoulder. "We can put all these exterior mattersright in no time. Trust me!--Are we not old friends? You have come backfrom death, as it seems, just when your child may need you--she DOESneed you--every young girl needs some protector in this world,especially when her name has become famous, and a matter of public talkand curiosity. Ah! I can already see her joy when she throws her armsaround your neck and says 'My father!' I would gladly change placeswith you for that one exquisite moment!"
They stayed together all that day and night. Lord Blythe sent his wireto Miss Leigh, and wrote his letter,--then both men settled down, as itwere, to wait. Armitage went off for two days to Milan, and returnedtransformed in dress, looking the very beau-ideal of an handsomeEnglishman,--and the people at Bellaggio who had known him as thewandering landscape painter "Pietro Corri" failed to recognise him nowin his true self.
"Yes," said Blythe again, with the fine unselfishness which was part ofhis nature, when at the end of one of their many conversationsconcerning Innocent, he had gone over every detail he could think ofwhich related to her life and literary success--"When she comes shewill give you all her heart, Pierce! She will be proud and glad,--shewill think of no one but her beloved father! She is like that! She isfull of an unspent love--you will possess it all!"
And in his honest joy for the joy of others, he never once thought ofAmadis de Jocelyn.