"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.