He paused.

"Well, go on," she said, coldly.

He looked at her, smiling.

"You are cross? Don't be cross,—you lose your enchanting expression! Well—you don't give yourself any airs, and you seem to play at literature like a child playing at a game: of course you make money by it,—but—you know better than I do that the greatest writers"—he emphasized the word "greatest" slightly— "never make money and are never popular."

"Does failure constitute greatness?" she asked, with a faintly satirical inflection in her sweet voice which he had never heard before.

"Sometimes—in fact pretty often," he replied, dabbing his brush busily on his canvas—"You should read about great authors—"

"I HAVE read about them," she said—"Walter Scott was popular and made money,—Charles Dickens was popular and made money—Thackeray was popular and made money—Shakespeare himself seemed to have had the one principal aim of making sufficient money enough to live comfortably in his native town, and he was 'popular' in his day— indeed he 'played to the gallery.' But he was not a 'failure'—and the whole world acknowledges his greatness now, though in his life-time he was unconscious of it."

Surprised at her quick eloquence, he paused in his work.

"Very well spoken!" he remarked, condescendingly—"I see you take a high view of your art! But like all women, you wander from the point. We were talking of Lord Blythe—and I say it would be far better for you to be—well!—his heiress!—for he might leave you all his fortune—than go on writing books."

Her lips quivered: despite her efforts, tears started to her eyes. He saw, and throwing down his brush came and knelt beside her, passing his arm round her waist.

"What have I said?" he murmured, coaxingly—"Innocent—sweet little love! Forgive me if I have—what?"—and he laughed softly— "rubbed you up the wrong way!"

She forced a smile, and her delicate white hands wandered caressingly through his hair as he laid his head against her bosom.

"I am sorry!" she said, at last—"I thought—I hoped—you might be proud of my work, Amadis! I was planning it all for that! You see"—she hesitated—"I learned so much from the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin—the brother of your ancestor!—that I have been thinking all the time how I could best show you that I was worthy of his teaching. The world—or the public—you know the things they say of me—but I do not want their praise. I believe I could do something really great if YOU cared!—for now it is only to please you that I live."

A sense of shame stung him at this simple avowal.

"Nonsense!" he said, almost brusquely—"You have a thousand other things to live for—you must not think of pleasing me only. Besides I'm not very—keen on literature,—I'm a painter."

"Surely painting owes something to literature?" she queried—"We should not have had all the wonderful Madonnas and Christs of the old masters if there had been no Bible!"

"True!—but perhaps we could have done without them!" he said, lightly—"I'm not at all sure that painting would not have got on just as well without literature at all. There is always nature to study—sky, sea, landscape and the faces of lovely women and children,—quite enough for any man. Where is Lord Blythe now?"

"In Italy," she replied—"He will be away some months."

She spoke with constraint. Her heart was heavy—the hopes and ambitions she had cherished of adding lustre to her fame for the joy and pride of her lover, seemed all crushed at one blow. She was too young and inexperienced to realise the fact that few men are proud of any woman's success, especially in the arts. Their attitude is one of amused tolerance when it is not of actual sex- jealousy or contempt. Least of all can any man endure that the woman for whom he has a short spell of passionate fancy should be considered notable, or in an intellectual sense superior to himself. He likes her to be dependent on him alone for her happiness,—for such poor crumbs of comfort he is pleased to give her when the heat of his first passion has cooled,—but he is not altogether pleased when she has sufficient intelligent perception to see through his web of subterfuge and break away clear of the entangling threads, standing free as a goddess on the height of her own independent attainment. Innocent's idea of love was the angelic dream of truth and everlastingness set forth by poets, whose sweet singing deludes themselves and others,—she was ready to devote all the unique powers of her mind and brain to the perfecting of herself for her lover's delight. She wished to be beautiful, brilliant, renowned and admired, simply that he might take joy in knowing that this beautiful, brilliant, renowned and admired creature was HIS, body and soul—existing solely for him and content to live only so long as he lived, to work only so long as he worked,—to be nothing apart from his love, but to be everything he could desire or command while his love environed her. She thought of the eternal union of souls,—while he had no belief in the soul at all, his half French materialism persuading him that there was nothing eternal. And like all men of his type he estimated her tenderness for him, her clinging arms, and the lingering passion of her caresses, to be chiefly the outflow of pleased vanity—the kittenish satisfaction of being stroked and fondled—the sense of her own sex-attractiveness,—but of anything deep and closely rooted in the centre of a more than usually sensitive nature he had not the faintest conception, taking it for granted that all women, even clever ones, were more or less alike, easily consoled by new millinery when lovers failed.

Sometimes, during the progress of their secret amour, a thrill of uneasiness and fear ran coldly through her veins—a wondering doubt which she repelled with indignation whenever it suggested itself. Amadis de Jocelyn was and must be the very embodiment of loyalty and honour to the woman he loved!—it could not be otherwise. His tenderness was ardent,—his passion fiery and eager,—yet she wondered—timidly and with deep humiliation in herself for daring to think so far—why, if he loved her so much as he declared, did he not ask her to be his wife? She supposed he would do so,—though she had heard him depreciate marriage as a necessary evil. Evidently he had his own good reasons for deferring the fateful question. Meanwhile she made a little picture-gallery of ideal joys in her brain,—and one of her fancies was that when she married her Amadis she would ask Robin Clifford to let her buy Briar Farm.

"He could paint well there!" she thought, happily, already seeing in her mind's eye the "Great Hall" transformed into an artist's studio—"and I almost think I could carry on the farm—Priscilla would help me,—and we know just how Dad liked things to be done— if—if Robin went away. And the master of the house would again be a true Jocelyn!"

The whole plan seemed perfectly natural and feasible. Only one obstacle presented itself like a dark shadow on the brightness of her dream—and that was her own "base" birth. The brand of illegitimacy was upon her,—and whereas once she alone had known what she judged to be a shameful secret, now two others shared it with her—Miss Leigh and Lord Blythe. They would never betray it— no!—but they could not alter what unkind fate had done for her. This was one reason why she was glad that Amadis de Jocelyn had not as yet spoken of their marriage.

"For I should have to tell him!" she thought, woefully—"I should have to say that I am the illegitimate daughter of Pierce Armitage—and then—perhaps he would not marry me—he might change—ah no!—he could not!—he would not!—he loves me too dearly! He would never let me go—he wants me always! We are all the world to each other!—nothing could part us now!"

And so the time drifted on—and with its drifting her work drifted too, and only one all-absorbing passion possessed her life with its close and consuming fire. Amadis de Jocelyn was an expert in the seduction of a soul—little by little he taught her to judge all men as worthless save himself, and all opinions unwarrantable and ill-founded unless he confirmed them. And, leading her away from the contemplation of high visions, he made her the blind worshipper of a very inadequate idol. She was happy in her faith, and yet not altogether sure of happiness. For there are two kinds of love—one with strong wings which lift the soul to a dazzling perfection of immortal destiny,—the other with gross and heavy chains which fetter every hope and aspiration and drag the finest intelligence down to dark waste and nothingness.



CHAPTER IX

In affairs of love a woman is perhaps most easily ensnared by a man who can combine passion with pleasantry and hot pursuit with social tact and diplomacy. Amadis de Jocelyn was an adept at this kind of thing—he was, if it may be so expressed, a refined libertine, loving women from a purely physical sense of attraction and pleasure conveyed to himself, and obtusely ignorant of the needs or demands of their higher natures. From a mental or intellectual standpoint all women to him were alike, made to be "managed" alike, used alike, and alike set aside when their use was done with. The leaven of the Jew or the Turk was in the temperament of this descendant of a long line of French nobles, who had gained their chief honours by killing men, ravishing women and plundering their neighbours' lands—though occasional flashes of bravery and chivalry had glanced over their annals in history like the light from a wandering will o' the wisp flickering over a morass. Gifted in his art, but wholly undisciplined in his nature, he had lived a life of selfish aims to selfish ends, and in the course of it had made love to many women,—one especially, on whose devoted affections he had preyed like an insect that ungratefully poisons the flower from which it has sucked the honey. This woman, driven to bay at last by his neglect and effrontery, had roused the scattered forces of her pride and had given him his conge—and he had been looking about for a fresh victim when he met Innocent. She was a complete novelty to him, and stimulated his more or less jaded emotions,—he found her quaint and charming as a poet's dream of some nymph of the woodlands,—her manner of looking at life and the things of life was so deliciously simple—almost mediaeval,—for she believed that a man should die rather than break his word or imperil his honour, which to Jocelyn was such a primitive state of things as to seem prehistoric. Then there was her fixed and absurd "fancy" about the noble qualities and manifold virtues of the French knight who had served the Duc d'Anjou,—and who had been to her from childhood a kind of lover in the spirit,—a being whom she had instinctively tried to serve and to please; and he had sufficient imagination to understand and take advantage of the feeling aroused in her when she had met one of the same descent, and bearing the same name, in himself. He had run through the gamut of many emotions and sentiments,—he had joined one or two of the new schools of atheism and modernism started by certain self-opinionated young University men, and in the earlier stages of his career had in the cock-sure impulse of youth designed schemes for the regeneration of the world, till the usual difficulties presented themselves as opposed to such vast business,—he had associated himself with men who followed what is called the "fleshly school" of poetry and art generally, and had evolved from his own mentality a comfortable faith of which the chief tenet was "Self for Self"—a religion which lifts the mind no higher than the purely animal plane;—and in its environment of physical consciousness and agreeable physical sensations, he was content to live.

With such a temperament and disposition as he possessed, which swayed him hither and thither on the caprice or impulse of the moment, his intentions toward Innocent were not very clear even to himself. When he had begun his "amour" with her he had meant it to go just as far as should satisfy his own whim and desire,—but as he came to know her better, he put a check on himself and hesitated as one may hesitate before pulling up a rose-bush from its happy growing place and flinging it out on the dust-heap to die. She was so utterly unsuspicious and unaware of evil, and she had placed him on so high a pedestal of honour, trusting him with such perfect and unquestioning faith, that for very manhood's sake he could not bring himself to tear the veil from her eyes. Moreover he really loved her in a curious, haphazard way of love, —more than he had ever loved any one of her sex,—and, when in her presence and under her influence, he gained a glimmering of consciousness of what love might mean in its best and purest sense.

He laughed at himself however for this very thought. He had always pooh-pooh'd the idea of love as having anything divine or uplifting in its action,—nevertheless in his more sincere moments he was bound to confess that since he had known Innocent his very art had gained a certain breadth and subtlety which it had lacked before. It was a pleasure to him to see her eyes shine with pride in his work, to hear her voice murmur dulcet praises of his skill, and for a time he took infinite pains with all his subjects, putting the very best of himself into his drawing and colouring with results that were brilliant and convincing enough to ensure success for all his efforts. Sometimes—lost in a sudden fit of musing—he wondered how his life would shape itself if he married her? He had avoided marriage as a man might avoid hanging,— considering it, not without reason, the possible ruin of an artist's greater career. Among many men he had known, men of undoubted promise, it had proved the fatal step downward from the high to the low. One particular "chum" of his own, a gifted painter, had married a plump rosy young woman with "a bit o' money," as the country folks say,—and from that day had been steadily dragged down to the domestic level of sad and sordid commonplace. Instead of studying form and colour, he was called upon to examine drains and superintend the plumber, mark house linen and take care of the children—his wife believing in "making a husband useful." Of regard for his art or possible fame she had none,—while his children were taught to regard his work in that line as less important than if he had been a bricklayer at so much pence the hour.

"Children!" thought Jocelyn—"Do I want them? ... No—I think not! They're all very well when they're young—really young!—two to five years old is the enchanting age,—but, most unfortunately, they grow! Yes!—they grow,—often into hideous men and women—a sort of human vultures sitting on their fathers' pockets and screaming 'Give! Give!' The prospect does not attract me! And she?—Innocent? I don't think I could bear to watch that little flower-like face gradually enlarging into matronly lines and spreading into a double chin! Those pretty eyes peering into the larder and considering the appearance of uncooked bacon! Perish the thought! One might as well think of Shakespeare's Juliet paying the butcher's bill, or worse still, selecting the butcher's meat! Forbid it, O ye heavens! Of course if ideals could be realised, which they never are, I can see myself wedded for pure love, without a care, painting my pictures at ease, with a sweet woman worshipping me, ever at my beck and call, and shielding me from trouble with all the tender force of her passionate little soul!—but commonplace life will net fit itself into these sort of beatific visions! Babies, and the necessary provision of food and clothes and servants—this is what marriage means—love having sobered down to a matter-of-fact conclusion. No—no! I will not marry her! It would be like catching a fairy in the woods, cutting off its sunbeam wings and setting it to scrub the kitchen floor!"

It was curious that while he pleased himself with this fanciful soliloquy it did not occur to him that he had already caught the "fairy in the woods," and ever since the capture had been engaged in cutting off its "sunbeam wings" with all a vivisector's scientific satisfaction. And in his imaginary pictures of what might have been if "ideals" were realised, he did not for a moment conceive HIMSELF as "worshipping" the woman who was to worship HIM, or as being at HER "beck and call," or as shielding HER from trouble—oh no! He merely considered himself, and how she would care for HIM,—never once did he consider how he would care for HER.

Meanwhile things went on in an outwardly even and uneventful course. Innocent worked steadily to fulfil certain contracts into which she had entered with the publishers who were eager to obtain as much of her work as she could give them,—but she had lost heart, and her once soaring ambition was like a poor bird that had been clumsily shot at, and had fallen to the ground with a broken wing. What she had dreamed of as greatness, now seemed vain and futile. The "Amadis de Jocelin" of the sixteenth century had taught her to love literature—to believe in it as the refiner of thought and expression, and to use it as a charm to inspire the mind and uplift the soul,—but the Amadis de Jocelyn of the twentieth had no such lessons to teach. Utterly lacking in reverence for great thinkers, he dismissed the finest passages of poetry or prose from his consideration with light scorn as "purple patches," borrowing that hackneyed phrase from the lower walks of the press,—the most inspired writers, both of ancient and modern times, came equally under the careless lash of his derision,—so that Innocent, utterly bewildered by his sweeping denunciation of many brilliant and famous authors, shrank into her wounded self with pain, humiliation and keen disappointment, feeling that there was certainly no chance for her to appeal to him in any way through the thoughts she cherished and expressed with truth and fervour to a listening world. That world listened—but HE did not!—therefore the world seemed worthless and its praise mere mockery. She had no vanity to support her,—she was not "strong- minded" enough to oppose her own individuality to that of the man she loved. And so she began to droop a little,—her bright and ardent spirit sank like a sinking flame,—much to the concern of Miss Leigh, who watched her with a jealous tenderness of love beyond all expression. The child of Pierce Armitage, lawfully or unlawfully begotten, was now to her the one joy of existence,—the link that fastened her more closely to life,—and she worried herself secretly over the evident listlessness, fatigue and depression of the girl who had so lately been the very embodiment of happiness. But she did not like to ask questions,—she knew that Innocent had a very resolute mind of her own, and that if she elected to remain silent on any subject whatsoever, nothing, not even the most affectionate appeal, would induce her to speak.

"You will not let her come to any harm, Pierce!" murmured the old lady prayerfully one day, standing before the portrait of her former and faithless lover—"You will step in if danger threatens her!—yes, I am sure you will! You will guide and help her again as you have guided and helped her before. For I believe you brought her to me, Pierce!—yes, I am sure you did! In that other world where you are, you have learned how much I loved you long ago!—how much I love you now!—and how I love your child for your sake as well as for her own! All wrongs and mistakes are forgiven and forgotten, Pierce! and when we meet again we shall understand!"

And with her little trembling worn hands she set a rose, just opening its deep red heart-bud into flower, in a crystal vase beside the portrait as a kind of votive offering, with something of the same superstitious feeling that induces a devout Roman Catholic to burn a candle before a favourite saint, in the belief that the spirit of the dead man heard her words and would respond to them.

Just at this time, Innocent went about a good deal among the few friends who had learned to know her well and to love her accordingly. Lord Blythe was still away, having prolonged his tour in order to enjoy the beauty of the Italian lakes in autumn. Summer in England was practically over, but the weather was fine and warm still, and country-house parties, especially in Scotland, were the order of the day. The "social swim" was subsiding, and what are called "notable" people were beginning to leave town. Once or twice, infected by the general exodus, Innocent thought of going down to Briar Farm just for a few days as a surprise to Priscilla—but a feeling for Robin held her back. It would be needless unkindness to again vex his mind with the pain of a hopeless passion. So she paid a few casual visits here and there, chiefly at houses where Amadis de Jocelyn was also one of the invited guests. She was made the centre of a considerable amount of adulation, which did not move her to any sort of self- satisfaction, because in the background of her thoughts there was always the light jest and smile of her lover, who laughed at praise, except, be it here said, when it was awarded to himself. Then he did not laugh—he assumed a playful humility which, being admirably acted, almost passed for modesty. But if by chance he had to listen to any praise of "Ena Armitage" as author or woman, he changed the subject as soon as he could conveniently do so without brusquerie. And very gradually it dawned upon her that he took no pride in her work or in the position she had won, and that he was more reluctant than glad to hear her praised. He seemed to prefer she should be unnoticed, save by himself, and more or less submissive to his will. Had she been worldly-wise, she would by every action have moved a silent protest against this, his particular form of sex-dominance, but she was of too loving a nature to dispute any right of command he chose to assume. Other men, younger and far higher in place and position than Jocelyn, admired her, and made such advances as they dared, finding her very coldness attractive, united as it was to such sweetness of manner as few could resist, but they had no chance with her. Once or twice some of her women friends had sounded her on the subject of love and lovers, and she had put aside all their questions with a smile. "Love is not to be talked about," she had said—"It is like God, served best in silence."

But by scarcely perceptible degrees, busy rumour got hold of a thread or two of the clue leading to the labyrinth of her mystery,—people nodded mysteriously at each other and began to whisper suggestions—suggestions which certainly did not go very far, but just floated in the air like bits of thistledown.

"She is having her portrait painted, isn't she?"

"Yes—by that man with the queer name—Amadis de Jocelyn."

"Has she given him the commission?"

"Oh no! I believe not. He's painting it for the French Salon."

"Oh!"

Then there would follow a silence, with an exchange of smiles all round. And presently the talk would begin again.

"Will it be a 'case,' do you think?"

"A 'case'? You mean a marriage? Oh dear no! Jocelyn isn't a marrying man."

"Isn't she a little—er—well!—a little taken with him?"

"Perhaps! Very likely! Clever women are always fools on one point —if not on several!"

"And he? Isn't he very attentive?"

"Not more so than he has been and is to dozens of other women. He's too clever to show her any special attention—it might compromise him. He's a man that takes care of Number One!"

So the gossip ran,—and only Jocelyn himself caught wind of it sufficiently to set him thinking. His "affaire de coeur" had gone far enough,—and he realised that the time had come for him to beat a retreat. But how to do it? The position was delicate and difficult. If Innocent had been an ordinary type of woman, vain and selfish, fond of frivolities and delighting in new conquests, his task would have been easy,—but with a girl who believed in love as the ultimatum of all good, and who trusted her lover with implicit faith as next in order of worship to God, what was to be done?

"We talk a vast amount of sentimental rubbish about women being pure and faithful!" he soliloquised—"But when they ARE pure and faithful we are more bored with them than if they were the worst women in town!"

He had however one subject of congratulation for which he metaphorically patted himself on the back as being "a good boy"— he had not gone to such extremes in his love-affair as could result in what is usually called "trouble" for the girl. He had left her unscathed, save in a moral and spiritual sense. The sweet body, with its delicate wavering tints of white and rose was as the unspoilt sheath of a lily-bud,—no one could guess that within the sheath the lily itself was blighted and slowly withering. One may question whether it is not a more cruel thing to seduce the soul than the body,—to crush all the fine faiths and happy illusions of a fair mind and leave them scorched by a devastating fire whose traces shall never be obliterated. Amadis de Jocelyn would have laughed his gayest and most ironical laugh at the bare possibility of such havoc being wrought by the passion of love alone.

"What's the use of loving or remembering anything?" he would exclaim—"One loves—one tires of love!—and by-and-by one forgets that love ever existed. I look forward to the time when my memory shall dwell chiefly on the agreeable entremets of life—a good dinner—a choice cigar! These things never bother you afterwards, —unless you eat too much or smoke too much,—then you have headache and indigestion—distinctly your own fault! But if you love a woman for a time and tire of her afterwards she always bothers you!—reminding you of the days when you 'once' loved her with persistent and dreadful monotony! I believe in forgetting,— and 'letting go.'"

With these sentiments, which were the true outcome of his real self, it was not and never would be possible for him to conceive that with certain high and ultra-sensitive natures love is a greater necessity than life itself, and that if they are deprived of the glory they have been led to imagine they possessed, nothing can make compensation for what to them is eternal loss, coupled with eternal sorrow.

Meanwhile Innocent's portrait on which he had worked for a considerable time was nearly completed. It was one of the best things he had ever done, and he contemplated it with a pleasant thrill of artistic triumph, forgetting the "woman" entirely in satisfied consideration of the "subject." As a portrait he realised that it would be the crown of the next year's Salon, bearing comparison with any work of the greater modern masters. He was however a trifle perplexed, and not altogether pleased at the expression, which, entirely away from his will and intention, had insensibly thrown a shadow of sadness on the face,—it had come there apparently of itself, unbidden. He had been particularly proud of his success in the drawing of the girl's extremely sensitive mouth, for he had, as he thought, caught the fleeting sweetness of the smile which was one of her greatest charms,—but now, despite his pains, that smile seemed to lose itself in the sorrow and pathos of an unspoken reproach, which, though enthralling and appealing to the beholder as the look of the famous "Mona Lisa," had fastened itself as it were on the canvas without the painter's act or consent. He was annoyed at this, yet dared not touch it in any attempt to alter what asserted itself as convincingly finished,—for the picture was a fine work of art and he realised that it would add to his renown.

"I shall not name it as the portrait of a living woman," he said to himself—"I shall call it simply—'Innocent.'"

As he thought this, the subject of the painting herself entered the studio. He turned at the sound of the door opening, and caught a strange new impression of her,—an impression that moved him to a touch of something like fear. Was she going to be tiresome, he wondered?—would she make him a "scene"—or do something odd as women generally did when their feelings escaped control? Her face was very pale—her eyes startlingly bright,—and the graceful white summer frock she wore, with soft old lace falling about it, a costume completed in perfection by a picturesque Leghorn hat bound with black velvet and adorned with a cluster of pale roses, made her a study worthy the brush of many a greater artist than Amadis de Jocelyn. His quick eye noted every detail of her dainty dress and fair looks as he went to meet her and took her in his arms. She clung to him for a moment—and he felt her tremble.

"What's the matter?" he asked, with unconscious sharpness—"Is anything wrong?"

She put him away from her tenderly and looked up smiling—but there was a sparkling dew in her eyes.

"No, my Amadis! Nothing wrong!"

He heaved a quick sigh of relief.

"Thank heaven! You looked at me as if you had a grievance—all women have grievances—but they should keep them to themselves."

She gave the slightest little shrug of her shoulders; then went and sat on the highest step of the familiar dais where she had posed for her picture, and waited a moment. He did not at once come to sit beside her as he had so often done—he stood opposite his easel, looking at her portrait but not at her.

"I have no grievance," she said then, making an effort to steady her voice, which trembled despite herself—"And if I had I should not vex you with it. But—when you can quite spare the time I should like a quiet little talk with you."

He looked round at her with a kind smile.

"Just what I want to have with you! 'Les beaux esprits se rencontrent'—and we both want exactly the same thing! Dear little girl, how sensible you are! Of course we must talk—about the future."

A lovely radiance lit up her face.

"That is what I thought you would wish," she said—"Now that the portrait is finished."

"Well,—all but a touch or two," he rejoined—"I shall ask a few people to come here and see it before it leaves London. Then it must be property packed in readiness for Paris before—before I go—"

Her eyes opened in sudden terrified wonderment.

"Before you go—where?"

He laughed a little awkwardly.

"Oh—only a short journey—on business—I will explain when we have our talk out—not now—in a day or two—"

He left the easel, and coming to where she sat, lifted her in his arms and folded her close to his breast.

"You sweet soul!" he murmured—"You little Innocent! You are so pretty to-day!—you madden me—"

He unfastened her hat and put it aside,—then drawing her closer, showered quick eager kisses on her lips, eyes and warm soft neck. He felt her heart beating wildly and her whole body trembling under his gust of passion.

"You love me—you truly love me?" she questioned, between little sighs of pleasure—"Tell me!—are you sure?"

"Am I not proving it?" he answered—"Does a man behave like this if he does not love?"

"Ah, yes!" And she looked up with a wild piteousness in her sweet eyes—"A man will behave like this to any woman!"

He loosened his clasp of her, astonished—then laughed.

"Where did you learn that?" he asked—"Who told you men were so volatile?"

"No one!"—and her caressing arms fell away from him—"My Amadis, you find it pleasant to kiss and to embrace me for the moment—but perhaps not always will you care! Love—real love is different—"

"What do YOU mean by love?" he asked still smiling.

She sighed.

"I can hardly tell you," she said—"But one thing I DO know—love would never hurt or wrong the thing it loved! Words, kisses, embraces—they are just the sweet outflow of a great deep!—but love is above and beyond all these, like an angel living with God!"

He was silent.

She came up to him and laid her little hand timidly on his arm.

"It is time we were quite sure of that angel, my Amadis!" she said—"We ARE sure—but—"

He looked her full and quietly in the eyes.

"Yes, child!" he answered—"It is time! But I cannot talk about angels or anything else just now—it is growing late in the afternoon and you must not stay here too long. Come to-morrow or next day, and we'll consult together as to what is best to be done for your happiness—"

"For yours!" she interposed, gently.

He smiled, curiously.

"Very well! As you will! For mine!"



CHAPTER X

Lord Blythe stood at the open window of his sitting-room in the Grand Hotel at Bellaggio—a window opening out to a broad balcony and commanding one of the most enchanting views of the lake and mountains ever created by Divine Beneficence for the delight of man. The heavenly scene, warm with rich tints of morning in Italy, glowed like a jewel in the sun: picturesque boats with little red and blue awnings rocked at the edge of the calm lake, in charge of their bronzed and red-capped boatmen, waiting for hire,—the air was full of fragrance, and every visible thing appealed to beauty- loving eyes with exquisite and irresistible charm. His attention, however, had wandered far from the enjoyable prospect,—he was reading and re-reading a letter he had just received from Miss Leigh, in which certain passages occurred which caused him some uneasiness. On leaving England he had asked her to write regularly, giving him all the news of Innocent, and she had readily undertaken what to her was a pleasing duty. His thoughts were constantly with the little house in Kensington, where the young daughter of his dead friend worked so patiently to bring forth the fruits of her genius and live independently by their results, and his intense sympathy for the difficult position in which she had been placed through no fault of her own and the courage with which she had surmounted it, was fast deepening into affection. He rather encouraged this sentiment in himself with the latent hope that possibly when he returned to England she might still be persuaded to accept the position he was so ready to offer her—that of daughter to him and heiress,—and just now he was troubled by an evident anxiety which betrayed itself in Miss Leigh's letter—anxiety which she plainly did her best to conceal, but which nevertheless made itself apparent.

"The dear child works incessantly," she wrote, "but she is very quiet and seems easily tired. She is not as bright as she used to be, and looks very pale, so that I fear she is doing too much, though she says she is perfectly well and happy. We had a call from Mr. John Harrington the other afternoon—I think you know him—and he seemed quite to think with me that she is over-working herself. He suggested that I should persuade her to go for a change somewhere, either with me or with other friends. I wonder if you would care for us to join you at the Italian Lakes? If you would I might be able to manage it. I have not mentioned the idea to her yet, as I know she is finishing some work—but she tells me it will all be done in a few days, and that then she will take a rest. I hope she will, for I'm sure she needs it."

Another part of the letter ran as follows:—

"I rather hesitate to mention it, but I think so many prolonged sittings for her portrait to that painter with the strange name, Amadis de Jocelyn, have rather tired her out. The picture is finished now, and I and a few friends went to see it the other day. It is a most beautiful portrait, but very sad!—and it is wonderful how the likeness of her father as he was in his young days comes out in her face! She and Mr. de Jocelyn are very intimate friends—and some people say he is in love with her! Perhaps he may be!—but I do hope she is not in love with HIM!"

Lord Blythe took off his spectacles, folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. Then he looked out towards the lake and the charming picture it presented. How delightful it would be to see Innocent in one of those dainty boats scattered about near the water's edge, revelling with all the keenness of a bright, imaginative temperament in the natural loveliness around her! Young, and with the promise of a brilliant career opening out before her, happiness seemed ready and waiting to bless and to adorn the life of the little deserted girl who, left alone in the world, had nevertheless managed to win the world's hearing through the name she had made for herself—yet now—yes!—now there was the cruel suggestion of a shadow—an ugly darkness like a black cloud, blotting the fairness of a blue sky,—and Blythe felt an uncomfortable sense of premonition and wrong as the thought of Amadis de Jocelyn came into his head and stayed there. What was he that he should creep into the unspoiled sphere of a woman's opening life? A painter, something of a genius in his line, but erratic and unstable in his character,—known more or less for several "affairs of gallantry" which had slipped off his easy conscience like water off a duck's back,—not a highly cultured man by any means, because ignorant of many of the finer things in art and letters, and without any positively assured position. Yet, undoubtedly a man of strong physical magnetism and charm— fascinating in his manner, especially on first acquaintance, and capable of overthrowing many a stronger citadel than the tender heart of a sensitive girl like Innocent, who by a most curious mischance had been associated all her life with the romance of his medieval name and lineage.

"Yes—of course she must come out here," Blythe decided, after a few minutes' cogitation. "I'll send a wire to Miss Leigh this morning and follow it up by a letter to the child herself, urging her to join me. The change and distraction will perhaps save her from too much association with Jocelyn,—I do not trust that man— never have trusted him! Poor little girl! She shall not have her spirit broken if I can help it."

He stayed yet another few minutes at the open window, and taking out a cigar from his case began to light it. While doing this his eye was suddenly caught by the picturesque, well-knit figure of a man sitting easily on a step near the clustering boats gathered close to the hotel's special landing place. He was apparently one of the many road-side artists one meets everywhere about the Italian Lakes, ready to paint a sunset or moonlight on Como or Maggiore on commission at short notice for a few francs. He was not young—his white hair and grizzled moustache marked the unpleasing passage of resistless time,—yet there was something lissom and graceful about him that suggested a kind of youth in age. His attire consisted of much worn brown trousers and a loose white shirt kept in place by a red belt,—his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, displaying thin brown muscular arms, expressive of energy, and he wore a battered brown hat which might once have been of the so-called "Homburg" shape, but which now resembled nothing ever seen in the way of ordinary head-gear. He was busily engaged in sketching a view of the lake and the opposite mountains, evidently to the order of some fashionably dressed women who stood near him watching the rapid and sure movements of his brush—he had his box of water-colours beside him, and smiled and talked as he worked. Lord Blythe watched him with lively interest, while enjoying the first whiffs of his lately lit cigar.

"A clever chap, evidently!" he thought. "These Italians are all artists and poets at heart. When those women have finished with him I'll get him to do a sketch for me to send to Innocent—just to show her the loveliness of the place. She'll be delighted! and it may tempt her to come here."

He waited a few minutes longer, till he saw the artist hand over the completed drawing to his lady patrons, one of whom paid him with a handful of silver coin. Something in the bearing and attitude of the man as he rose from the step where he had been seated and lifted his shapeless brown hat to his customers in courteous acknowledgment of their favours as they left him, struck Blythe with an odd sense of familiarity.

"I must have seen him somewhere before," he thought. "In Venice, perhaps—or Florence—these fellows are like gipsies, they wander about everywhere."

He sauntered out of the Hotel into the garden and from the garden down to the landing-place, where he slowly approached the artist, who was standing with his back towards him, slipping his lately earned francs into his trouser pocket. Several sample drawings were set up in view beside him,—lovely little studies of lake and mountain which would have done honour to many a Royal Academician, and Blythe paused, looking at these with wonder and admiration before speaking, unaware that the artist had taken a backward glance at him of swift and more or less startled recognition.

"You are an admirable painter, my friend!" he said, at last— speaking in Italian of which he was a master. "Your drawings are worth much more than you are asking for them. Will you do one specially for me?"

"I've done a good many for you in my time, Blythe!" was the half- laughing answer, given in perfect English. "But I don't mind doing another."

And he turned round, pushing his cap off his brows, and showing a wonderfully handsome face, worn with years and privation, but fine and noble-featured and full of the unquenchable light which is given by an indomitable and enduring spirit.

Lord Blythe staggered back and caught at the handrail of the landing steps to save himself from falling.

"My God!" he gasped. "You! You, of all men in the world! You!— you, Pierce Armitage!"

And he stared wildly, his brain swimming,—his pulses beating hammer-strokes—was it—could it be possible? The artist in brown trousers and white shirt straightened himself, and instinctively sought to assume a less tramp-like appearance, looking at his former friend meanwhile with a half-glad, half-doubtful air.

"Well, well, Dick!" he said, after a moment's pause—"Don't take it badly that you find me pursuing my profession in this peripatetic style! It's a nice life—better than being a pavement artist in Pimlico! You mustn't be afraid! I'm not going to claim acquaintance with you before the public eye—you, a peer of the realm, Dick! No, no! I won't shame you..."

"Shame me!" Blythe sprang forward and caught his hand in a close warm grip. "Never say that, Pierce! You know me better! Thank God you are here—alive!—thank God I have met you!—"

He stopped, too overcome to say another word, and wrung the hand he held with unconscious fervour, tears springing to his eyes. The two looked full at each other, and Armitage smiled a little confusedly.

"Why, Dick!" he began,—then turning his head quickly he glanced up at the clear blue sky to hide and to master his own emotion—"I believe we feel like a couple of sentimental undergrads still, Dick in spite of age and infirmities!"

He laughed forcedly, while Blythe, at last releasing his hand, took him by the arm, regardless of the curious observation of some of the hotel guests who were strolling about the garden and terraces.

"Come with me, Pierce," he said, in hurried nervous accents—"I have news for you—such news as you cannot guess or imagine. Put away all those drawings and come inside the hotel—to my room—" "What? In this guise?" and Armitage shook his head—"My dear fellow, your enthusiasm is running away with you! Besides—there is some one else to consider—"

"Some one else? Whom do you mean?" demanded Blythe with visible impatience.

Armitage hesitated.

"Your wife," he said, at last.

Blythe looked him steadily in the eyes.

"My wife is dead."

"Dead!" Armitage loosened his arm from the other's hold, and stood inert as though he had received a numbing blow. "Dead! When did she die?"

In a few words Blythe told him.

Armitage heard in silence. Mechanically he began to collect his drawings and put them in a portfolio. His face was pale under its sun-browned tint,—his expression almost tragic. Lord Blythe watched him for a moment, moved by strong heart-beats of affection and compassion.

"Pierce," he then said, in a low tone—"I know everything!"

Armitage turned on him sharply.

"You—you know?—What?—How?—"

"She—Maude—told me all," said Blythe, gently—"And I think—your wrong to her—was not so blameworthy as her wrong to you! But I have something to tell you of one whose wrong is greater than hers or yours—one who is Innocent!"

He emphasised the name, and Armitage started as though struck with a whip.

"Innocent!" he muttered—"The child—yes!—but I couldn't make enough to send money for it after a while—I paid as long as I could—"

He trembled,—his fine eyes had a strained look of anguish in them.

"Not dead too?" he said—"Surely not—the people at the farm had a good name—they would not be cruel to a child—"

Blythe gripped him by the arm.

"Come," he said—"We cannot talk here—there are too many people about—I must have you to myself. Never mind your appearance—many an R. A. cuts a worse figure than you do for the sake of 'pose'! You are entirely picturesque"—and he relieved his pent-up feelings by a laugh—"And there's nothing strange in your coming to my room to see the particular view I want from my windows."

Thus persuaded, Armitage gathered his drawings and painting materials together, and followed his friend, who quickly led the way into the Hotel. The gorgeously liveried hall-porter nodded familiarly to the artist, whom he had seen for several seasons selling his work on the landing, and made a good-natured comment on his "luck" in having secured the patronage of a rich English "Milor," but otherwise little notice was taken of the incongruous couple as they passed up the stairs to "Milor's" private rooms on the first floor, where, as soon as they entered, Blythe shut and locked the door.

"Now, Pierce, I have you!" he said, affectionately taking him by the shoulders and pushing him towards a chair. "Why, in heaven's name, did you never let me know you were alive? Everyone thought you were dead years and years ago!"

Armitage sat down, and taking off his cap, passed his hand through his thick crop of silvery hair.

"I spread that report myself," he said. "I wanted to get out of it all—to give up!—to forget that such a place as London existed. I was sick to death of it!—of its conventions, and vile hypocrisies—its 'bounders' in art as in everything else!— besides, I should have been in the way—Maude was tired of me—"

He broke off, with an abstracted look.

"You know all about it, you say?" he went on after a pause—"She told you—"

"She told me the night she died," answered Blythe quietly—"After a silence of nearly twenty years!"

Armitage gave a short, sharp sigh. "Women are strange creatures!" he said. "I don't think they know when they are loved. I loved her—much more than she knew,—she seemed to me the most beautiful thing on earth!—and when she asked me to run away with her—"

"She asked you?"

"Yes—of course! Do you think I would have taken her against her own wish and will? She suggested and planned the whole thing—and I was mad for her at the time—even now those weeks we passed together seem to me the only real living of my life! I thought she loved me as I loved her—and if she had married me, as I begged her to do, I believe I should have done something as a painter,— something great, I mean. But she got tired of my 'art-jargon,' as she called it—and she couldn't bear the idea of having to rough it a bit before I could hope to make any large amount of money. Then I was disappointed—and I told her so—and SHE was disappointed, and she told ME so—and we quarrelled—but when I heard a child was to be born, I urged her again to marry me—"

"And she refused?" interposed Blythe.

"She refused. She said she intended to make a rich marriage and live in luxury. And she declared that if I ever loved her at all, the only way to prove it was to get rid of the child. I don't think she would have cared if I had been brute enough to kill it."

Blythe gave a gesture of horror.

"Don't say that, man! Don't think it!"

Armitage sighed.

"Well, I can't help it, Blythe! Some women go callous when they've had their fling. Maude was like that. She didn't care for me any more,—she saw nothing in front of her but embarrassment and trouble if her affair with me was found out—and as it was all in my hands I did the best I could think of,—took the child away and placed it with kind country folks—and removed myself from England and out of Maude's way altogether. The year after I came abroad I heard she had married you,—rather an unkind turn of fate, you being my oldest friend! and this was what made me resolve to 'die'—that is, to be reported dead, so that she might have no misgivings about me or my turning up unexpectedly to cause you any annoyance. I determined to lose myself and my name too—no one knows me here as Pierce Armitage,—I'm Pietro Corri for all the English amateur art-lovers in Italy!"

He laughed rather bitterly.

"I think I lost a good deal more than myself and my name!" he went on. "I believe if I had stayed in England I should have won something of a reputation. But—you see, I really loved Maude—in a stupid man's way of love,—I didn't want to worry her or remind her of her phase of youthful madness with me—or cause scandal to her in any way—"

"But did you ever think of the child?" interrupted Blythe, suddenly.

Armitage looked up.

"Think of it? Of course I did! The place where I left it was called Briar Farm,—a wonderful old sixteenth-century house—I made a drawing of it once when the apple-blossom was out—and the owner of it, known as Farmer Jocelyn, had a wonderful reputation in the neighbourhood for integrity and kindness. I left the child with him—one stormy night in autumn—saying I would come back for it—of course I never did—but for twelve years I sent money for it from different places in Europe—and before I left England I told Maude where it was, in case she ever wanted to see it—not that such an idea would ever occur to her! I thought the probabilities were that the farmer, having no children of his own, would be likely to adopt the one left on his hands, and that she would grow up a happy, healthy country lass, without a care, and marry some good, sound, simple rustic fellow. But you know everything, I suppose!—or so your looks imply. Is the child alive?"

Lord Blythe held up his hand.

"Now, Pierce, it is my turn," he said—"Your share in the story I already knew in part—but one thing you have not told me—one wrong you have not confessed."

"Oh, there are a thousand wrongs I have committed," said Armitage, with a slight, weary gesture. "Life and love have both disappointed me—and I suppose when that sort of thing happens a man goes more or less to the dogs—"

"Life and love have disappointed a good many folks," said Blythe— "Women perhaps more than men. And one woman especially, who hardly merited disappointment—one who loved you very truly, Pierce!— have you any idea who it is I mean?"

Armitage moved restlessly,—a slight flush coloured his face.

"You mean Lavinia Leigh?" he said—"Yes—I behaved like a cad. I know it! But—I could not help myself. Maude drew me on with her lovely eyes and smile! And to think she is dead!—all that beauty in the grave!—cold and mouldering!" He covered his eyes with one hand, and a visible tremor shook him. "Somehow I have always fancied her as young as ever and endowed with a sort of earthly immortality! She was so bright, so imperious, so queen-like! You ask me why I did not let you know I was living? Blythe, I would have died in very truth by my own hand rather than trouble her peace in her married life with you!" He paused—then glanced up at his friend, with the wan flicker of a smile—"And—do you know Lavinia Leigh?"

"I do," answered Blythe—"I know and honour her! And—your daughter is with her now!"

Armitage sprang up.

"My daughter! With Lavinia! No!—impossible—incredible!—"

"Sit down again, Pierce," and Lord Blythe himself drew up a chair close to Armitage—"Sit down and be patient! You know the lines— 'There's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will'? Divinity has worked in strange ways with you, Pierce!—and still more strangely with your child. Will you listen while I tell you all?"

Armitage sank into his chair,—his hands trembled—he was greatly agitated,—and his eyes were fixed on his friend's face in an eager passion of appeal.

"I will listen as if you were an angel speaking, Dick!" he said. "Let me know the worst!—or the best—of everything!"

And Blythe, in a low quiet voice, thrilled in its every accent by the affection and sympathy of his honest spirit, told him the whole story of Innocent—of her sweetness and prettiness—of her grace and genius—of the sudden and brilliant fame she had won as "Ena Armitage"—of the brief and bitter knowledge she had been given of her mother—of her strange chance in going straight to the house of Miss Leigh when she travelled alone and unguided from the country to London—and lastly of his own admiration for her courage and independence, and his desire to adopt her as a daughter in order to leave her his fortune.

"But now you have turned up, Pierce, I resign my hopes in that direction!" he concluded, with a smile. "You are her father!—and you may well be proud of such a daughter! And there is a duty staring you in the face—a duty towards her which, when once performed, will release her from a good deal of pain and perplexity—you know what it is?"

"Rather!" and Armitage rose and began pacing to and fro—"To acknowledge and legalise her as my child! I can do this now—and I will! I can declare she was born in wedlock, now Maude is dead— for no one will ever know. The real identity of her mother"—he paused and came up to Blythe, resting his hands on his shoulders— "the real identity of her mother is and shall ever be OUR secret!"

There was a pause. Then Armitage's mellow musical voice again broke the silence.

"I can never thank you, Blythe!" he said—"You blessed old man as you are! You seem to me like a god disguised in a tweed suit! You have changed life for me altogether! I must cease to be a wandering scamp on the face of the earth!—I must try to be worthy of my fair and famous daughter! How strange it seems! Little Innocent!—the poor baby I left to the mercies of a farm-yard training!—for her I must become respectable! I think I'll even try to paint a great picture, so that she isn't ashamed of her Dad! What do you say? Will you help me?"

He laughed,—but there were great tears in his eyes. They clasped hands silently.

Then Lord Blythe spoke in a light tone.

"I'll wire to Miss Leigh this morning," he said. "I'll ask her to come out here with Innocent as soon as possible. I won't break the news of YOU to them yet—it would quite overpower Miss Leigh—it might almost kill her—"

"Why, how?" asked Armitage.

"With joy!" answered Blythe. "Hers is a faithful soul!"

He waited a moment—then went on:

"I'll prepare the way cautiously in a letter—it would never do to blurt the whole thing out at once. I'll tell Innocent I have a very great and delightful surprise awaiting her—"

"Oh, very great and delightful indeed!" echoed Armitage with a sad little laugh. "The discovery of a tramp father with only a couple of shirts to his back and a handful of francs in his pocket!"

"My dear chap, what does that matter?" and Blythe gave him a light friendly blow on the shoulder. "We can put all these exterior matters right in no time. Trust me!—Are we not old friends? You have come back from death, as it seems, just when your child may need you—she DOES need you—every young girl needs some protector in this world, especially when her name has become famous, and a matter of public talk and curiosity. Ah! I can already see her joy when she throws her arms around your neck and says 'My father!' I would gladly change places with you for that one exquisite moment!"

They stayed together all that day and night. Lord Blythe sent his wire to Miss Leigh, and wrote his letter,—then both men settled down, as it were, to wait. Armitage went off for two days to Milan, and returned transformed in dress, looking the very beau- ideal of an handsome Englishman,—and the people at Bellaggio who had known him as the wandering landscape painter "Pietro Corri" failed to recognise him now in his true self.

"Yes," said Blythe again, with the fine unselfishness which was part of his nature, when at the end of one of their many conversations concerning Innocent, he had gone over every detail he could think of which related to her life and literary success— "When she comes she will give you all her heart, Pierce! She will be proud and glad,—she will think of no one but her beloved father! She is like that! She is full of an unspent love—you will possess it all!"

And in his honest joy for the joy of others, he never once thought of Amadis de Jocelyn.



CHAPTER XI

It was a gusty September afternoon in London, and autumn had given some unpleasing signs of its early presence in the yellow leaves that flew whirling over the grass in Kensington Gardens and other open spaces where trees spread their kind boughs to the rough and chilly wind. A pretty little elm in Miss Leigh's tiny garden was clothed in gold instead of green, and shook its glittering foliage down with every breath of air like fairy coins minted from the sky. Innocent, leaning from her study window, watched the falling brightness with an unwilling sense of pain and foreboding.

"Summer is over, I'm afraid!" she sighed—"Such a wonderful summer it has been for me!—the summer of my life—the summer of my love! Oh, dear summer, stay just a little longer!"

And the verse of a song, sung so often as to have become hackneyed, rang in her ears—

"Falling leaf and fading tree, Lines of white in a sullen sea, Shadows rising on you and me—The swallows are making them ready to fly, Wheeling out on a windy sky: Good-bye, Summer! Good-bye, good-bye!"

She shivered, and closed the window. She was dressed for going out, and her little motor-brougham waited for her below. Miss Leigh had gone to lunch and to spend the afternoon with some old friends residing out of town,—an unusual and wonderful thing for her to do, as she seldom accepted invitations now where Innocent was not concerned,—but the people who had asked her were venerable folk who could not by the laws of nature be expected to live very much longer, and as they had known Lavinia Leigh from girlhood she considered it somewhat of a duty to go and see them when, as in this instance, they earnestly desired it. Moreover she knew Innocent had her own numerous engagements and was never concerned at being left alone—especially on this particular afternoon when she had an appointment with her publishers,—and another appointment afterwards, of which she said nothing, even to herself. She had taken more than usual pains with her attire, and looked her sweetest in a soft dove-coloured silk gown gathered about her slight figure in cunning folds of exquisite line and drapery, while the tender gold of her hair shone like ripening corn from under the curved brim of a graceful "picture" hat of black velvet, adorned with one drooping pale grey plume. A small knot of roses nestled among the delicate lace on her bodice, and the diamond dove-pendant Lord Blythe had given her sparkled like a frozen sunbeam against the ivory whiteness of her throat. She glanced at herself in the mirror with a smile,—wondering if "he" would be pleased with her appearance,—"he" had been what is called "difficult" of late, finding fault with some of the very points of her special way of dress which he had once eagerly admired. But she attributed his capricious humour to fatigue and irritability from "over-strain"—that convenient ailment which is now-a-days brought in as a disguise for mere want of control and bad temper. "He has been working so hard to finish his portrait of me!" she thought, tenderly—"Poor fellow!—he must have got quite tired of looking at my face!"

She glanced round her study to see that everything was in order— and then took up a neatly tied parcel of manuscript—her third book—completed. She had a fancy—one of many, equally harmless,— that she would like to deliver it herself to the publishers rather than send it by post, on this day of all days, when plans for the future were to be discussed with her lover and everything settled for their mutual happiness. Her heart grew light with joyous anticipation as she ran downstairs and nodded smilingly at the maid Rachel, who stood ready at the door to open it for her passing.

"If Miss Leigh comes home before I do, tell her I will not be long," she said, as she stepped into her brougham and was whirled away. At the office of her publishers she was expected and received with eager homage. The head of the firm took the precious packet of manuscript from her hand with a smile of entire satisfaction.

"You are up to your promised time, Miss Armitage!" he said, kindly—"And you must have worked very hard. I hope you'll give yourself a good long rest now?"

She laughed, lightly.

"Oh, well!—perhaps!" she answered—"If I feel I can afford it! I want to work while I'm young—not to rest. But I think Miss Leigh would like a change—and if she does I'll take her wherever she wishes to go. She is so kind to me!—I can never do enough for her!"

The publisher looked at her sweet, thoughtful face curiously.

"Do you never think of yourself?" he asked—"Must you always plan some pleasure for others?"

She glanced at him in quick surprise.

"Why, of course!" she replied—"Pleasure for others is the only pleasure possible to me. I assure you I'm quite selfish!—I'm greedy for the happiness of those I love—and if they can't or won't be happy I'm perfectly miserable!"

He smiled,—and when she left, escorted her himself out of his office to her brougham with a kind friendliness that touched her.

"You won't let me call you a brilliant author," he said, as he shook hands with her—"Perhaps it will please you better if I say you are a true woman!"

Her eyes flashed up a bright gratitude,—she waved her hand in parting—as the brougham glided off. And never to his dying day did that publisher and man of hard business detail forget the radiance of the face that smiled at him that afternoon,—a face of light and youth and loveliness, as full of hope and faith as the face of a pictured angel kneeling at the feet of the Madonna with heaven's own glory encircling it in gold.

The quick little motor-brougham seemed unusually slow-going that afternoon. Innocent, with her full happy heart and young pulsing blood, grew impatient with its tardy progress, yet, as a matter of fact, it travelled along at its most rapid speed. The well-known by-street near Holland Park was reached at last, and while the brougham went off to an accustomed retired corner chosen by the chauffeur to await her pleasure, she pushed open the gate of the small garden leading to the back entrance of Jocelyn's studio—a garden now looking rather damp and dreary, strewn as it was with wet masses of fallen leaves. It was beginning to rain—and she ran swiftly along the path to the familiar door which she opened with her private key. Jocelyn was working at his easel—he heard the turn of the lock and looked round. She entered, smiling—but he did not at once go and meet her. He was finishing off some special touch of colour over which he bent with assiduous care,—and she was far too unselfishly interested in his work to disturb him at what seemed to be an anxious moment. So she waited.

Presently he spoke, with a certain irritability in his tone.

"Are you there? I wish you would come forward where I can see you!"

She laughed—a pretty rippling laugh of kindly amusement.

"Amadis! If you are a true Knight, it is you who should turn round and look at me for yourself!"

"But I am busy," he said, with the same sharpness of voice— "Surely you see that?"

She made no answer, but moved quietly to a position where she stood facing him at about an arm's length. Never had she made a prettier picture than in that attitude of charming hesitation, with a tender little smile on her pretty mouth and a wistful light in her eyes. He laid down his palette and brushes.

"I must give up work for to-day," he said—and going to her he took her in his arms—"You are too great an attraction for me to resist!" He kissed her lightly, as he would have kissed a child. "You are very fascinating this afternoon! Are you bent on some new conquest?"

She gave him a sweet look.

"Why will you talk nonsense, my Amadis!" she said—"You know I never wish for 'conquests' as you call them,—I only want you! Nothing but you!"

With his arm about her he drew her to a corner of the studio, half curtained, where there was a double settee or couch, comfortably cushioned, and here he sat down still holding her in his embrace.

"You only want me!—Nothing but me!" he repeated, softly—"Dear little Innocent!—Ah!—But I fear I am just what you cannot have!"

She smiled, not understanding.

"What do you mean?" she asked—"You always play with me! Are you not all mine as I am all yours?"

He was silent. Then he slowly withdrew his arm from her waist.

"Now, child," he said—"listen to me and be good and sensible! You know this cannot go on."

She lifted her eyes trustfully to his face.

"What cannot go on?" she queried, as softly as though the question were a caress.

He moved restlessly.

"Why—this—this love-making, of ours! We mustn't give ourselves over to sentiment—we must be normal and practical. We must look the thing squarely in the face and settle on some course that will be best and wisest for us both—"

She trembled a little. Something cold and terrifying began to creep through her blood.

"Yes—I know," she faltered, nervously—"You said—you said we would arrange everything together to-day."

"True! So I did! Well, I will!" He drew closer to her and took her little hand in his own. "You see, dear, we can't live on the heights of ecstasy for ever" and he smiled,—a forced, ugly smile —"We've had a very happy time together, haven't we?"—and he was conscious of a certain nervousness as he felt her soft little body press against him in answer—"But the time has come for us to think of other things—other interests—your career,—my future—"

She looked up at him in sudden alarm.

"Amadis!" she said—"What is it? You frighten me!—you speak so strangely! What do you mean?"

"Now if you are unreasonable I shall go away!" he said, with sudden harshness, dropping her hand—"I shall leave you here by yourself without another word!"

She turned deathly pale—then flushed a faint crimson—a sense of giddy faintness overcame her,—she put up her hands to her head tremblingly, and loosening her hat took it off as though its weight oppressed her.

"I—I am not unreasonable, Amadis," she faltered—"only—I don't understand—"

"Well, you ought to understand," he answered, heatedly—"A clever little woman like you who writes books should not want any explanation. You ought to be able to grasp the whole position at a glance!"

Her breath came and went quickly—she tried to smile.

"I'm afraid I'm very stupid then," she answered, gently—"For I can only see that you seem angry with me for nothing."

He took her hand again.

"Dear little goose, I am not angry," he said—"If you were to make me a 'scene' I SHOULD be angry—very angry! But you won't do that, will you? It would upset my nerves. And you are such a wise, independent little person that I feel quite safe with you. Well, now let us talk sensibly,—I've a great deal to tell you. In the first place, I'm going to Algiers."

Her lips were dry and stiff, but she managed to ask—

"When?"

"Oh, any time!—to-morrow... next day—before the week is over, certainly. There are some fine subjects out there that I want to paint—and I feel I could do good work—"

Her hand in his contracted a little,—she instinctively withdrew it... then she heard herself speaking as though it were someone else a long way off.

"When are you coming back?"

"Ah!—That's my own affair!" he answered carelessly—"In the spring perhaps,—perhaps not for a year or two—"

"Amadis!"

The name sprang from her lips like the cry of an animal wounded to death. She rose suddenly from his side and stood facing him, swaying slightly like a reed in a cruel wind.

"Well!" he rejoined—"You say 'Amadis' as though it hurt you! What now?"

"Do you mean," she said, faintly—"by—what—you—say,—do you mean—that we are—to part?"

The strained agony in her eyes compelled him to turn his own away. He got up from the settee and left her where she stood.

"We must part sooner or later," he answered, lightly—"surely you know that?"

"Surely I know that!" she repeated, with a bewildered look,—then running to him, she caught his arm—"Amadis! Amadis! You don't mean it!—say you don't mean it!—You can't mean it, if you love me! ... Oh, my dearest!—if you love me! ..."

She stopped, half choked by a throbbing ache in her throat,—and tottered against him as though about to fall. Alarmed at this he caught her round the waist to support her.

"Of course I love you!" he said, hurriedly—"When you are good and reasonable!—not when you behave like this! If I DON'T love you, it will be quite your own fault—"

"My own fault?" she murmured, sobbingly—"My own fault? Amadis! What have I done?"

"What have you done? It's what you are doing that matters! Giving way to temper and making me uncomfortable! Do you call that 'love'?"

She dropped her hand from his arm and drew herself away from him. She was trembling from head to foot.

"Please—please don't misunderstand me!" she stammered, like a frightened child—"I—I have no temper! I—I—feel nothing—I only want to please you—to know what you wish—"

She broke off—her eyes, lifted to his, had a strange, wild stare, but he was too absorbed in his own particular and personal difficulty to notice this. He went on, speaking rapidly—

"If you want to please me you will first of all be perfectly normal," he said—"Make up your mind to be calm and good-natured. I cannot stand an emotional woman all tantrums and tears. I like good sense and good manners. You ought to have both, with all the books you have read—"

She gave a sudden low laugh, empty of mirth.

"Books!" she echoed—and raising her arms above her head she let them drop again at her sides with a gesture of utter abandonment. "Ah yes! Books! Books by the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin!"

Her hair was ruffled and fell about her face,—her cheeks had flamed into a feverish red. The tragic beauty of her expression annoyed him.

"Your hair is coming down," he said, with a coldly critical smile —"You look like a Bacchante!"

She paid no attention to this remark. She was apparently talking to herself.

"Books!" she said again—"Such sweet love-letters and poems by the Sieur Amadis de Jocelin!"

He grew impatient.

"You're a silly child!" he said—"Are you going to listen to me or not?"

She gazed at him with an almost awful directness.

"I am listening!" she answered.

"Well, don't be melodramatic while you listen!" he retorted—"Be normal!"

She was silent, still gazing fixedly at him.

He turned his eyes away, and taking up one of his brushes, dipped it in colour and made a great pretence of working in a bit of sky on his canvas.

"You see, dear child," he resumed, with an unctuous air of patient kindness—"your ideas of love and mine are totally different. You want to live in a paradise of romance and tenderness—I want nothing of the sort. Of course, with a sweet caressable creature like you it's very pleasant to indulge in a little folly for a time,—and we've had quite four months of the 'divine rapture' as the poets call it,—four months is a long time for any rapture to last! You have—yes!—you have amused me!—and I've made you happy—given you something to think about besides scribbling and publishing—yes—I'm sure I have made you happy—and,—what is much more to my credit—I have taken care of you and left you unharmed. Think of that! Day after day I have had you here entirely in my power!—and yet—and yet"—here he turned his cold blue eyes upon her with an under-gleam of mockery in their steely light—"you are still—Innocent!"

She did not move—she scarcely seemed to breathe.

"That is why I told you it would be a good thing for you if you accepted Lord Blythe's offer,—in his great position he would be able to marry you well to some rich fellow with a title"—he went on, easily. "Now I am not a marrying man. Domestic bliss would not suit me. I have sometimes thought it would hardly suit YOU!"

She stirred slightly, as though some invisible creature had touched her, and held up one little trembling hand.

"Stop!" she said, and her voice though faint was clear and steady —"Do you think—can you imagine that I am of so low and common a nature as to marry any man, after—" She paused, struggling with herself.

"After what?" he queried, smilingly.

She shuddered, as with keenest cold.

"After your kisses!" she answered—"After your embraces which have held me away from everything save you!—After your caresses—oh God!—after all this,—do you think I would shame my body and perjure my soul by giving myself to another man?"

He almost laughed at her saintly idea of a lover's chastity.

"Every woman would!" he declared—"And I'm sure every woman does!"

She looked straight before her into vacancy.

"I am not 'every woman,'" she said, slowly—"I am only one unhappy girl!"

He was still dabbing colour on his canvas, but now threw down his brush and came to her.

"Dear child, why be tragic?" he said—"Life is such a pleasant thing and holds so much for both of us! I shall always love you— if you're good!" and he laughed, pleasantly—"and you can always love ME—if you like! But I cannot marry you—I have never thought of such a thing! Marriage would not suit me at all. I know, of course, what YOU would like. You would like a grand wedding with lots of millinery and presents, and then a honeymoon at your old Briar Farm—in fact, I daresay you'd like to buy Briar Farm and imprison me there for life, along with the dust and ashes of my ancestor's long-lost brother—but I shouldn't like it! No, child! —not even you, attractive as you are, could turn me into a Farmer Jocelyn!"

He tried to take her in his arms, but she drew herself back from him.

"You speak truly," she said, in a measured, lifeless tone— "Nothing could turn you into a Farmer Jocelyn. For he was an honest man!"

He winced as though a whip had struck him, and an ugly frown darkened his features.

"He would not have hurt a dog that trusted him," she went on in the same monotonous way—"He would not have betrayed a soul that loved him!"

All at once the unnatural rigidity of her face broke up into piteous, terrible weeping, and she flung herself at his feet.

"Amadis, Amadis!" she cried. "It is not—it cannot be you who are so cruel!—no, no!—it is some devil that speaks to me—not you, not you, my love, my heart! Oh, say it isn't true!—say it isn't true! Have mercy—mercy! I love you, I love you! You are all my life!—I cannot live without you! Amadis!"

Vexed and frightened for himself at her sudden wild abandonment of grief, he stooped, and gripping her by the arm tried to draw her up from the floor.

"Be quiet!" he said, roughly—"I will not have a scandal here in my studio! You'll bring my man-servant up in a moment with your stupid noise! I'm ashamed of you!—screaming and crying like a virago! If you make this row I shall go away!"

"Oh, no, no, no!—do not go away!" she moaned, sobbingly—"Have some little pity! Do not leave me, Amadis! Is everything forgotten so soon? Think for a moment what you have said to me!—what you have been to me! I thought you loved me, dear!—yes, I thought you loved me!—you told me so!" And she held up her little hands to him folded as in prayer, the tears raining down her cheeks—"But if for some fault of mine you do not love me any more, kill me now—here—just where I am!—kill me, Amadis!—or tell me to go away and kill myself—I will obey you!—but don't—don't send me into the empty darkness of life again all alone! Oh, no, no! Let me die rather than that!—you would not think unkindly of me if I were dead!"

He took her uplifted hands in his own—he began to be "artistically" interested,—with the same sort of interest Nero might have felt while watching the effects of some new poison on a tortured slave,—and a slight, very slight sense of regret and remorse tugged at his tough heart-strings.

"I should think of you exactly as I do now," he said, resolutely— "If you were to kill yourself I should not pity you in the least! I should say that though you were a bit of a clever woman, you were much more of a fool! So you would gain nothing that way! You see, I'm sane and sensible—you are not. You are excited and hysterical—and don't know what you are talking about. Yes, child!—that's the fact!" He patted the hands he held consolingly, and then let them go. "I wish you'd get up from the floor and be reasonable! The position is quite simple and clear. We've had an ideal time of it together—but isn't it Shakespeare who says 'These violent delights have violent ends'? My work calls me to Algiers—yours keeps you in London—therefore we must part—but we shall meet again—some day—I hope..."

She slowly rose to her feet,—her sobbing ceased.

"Then—you never loved me?" she said—"It was all a lie?"

"I never lie," he answered, coldly—"I loved you—for the time being. You amused me."

"And for your 'amusement' you have ruined me?"

"Ruined you?" He turned upon her in indignant protest—"You must be mad! You have been as safe with me as in the arms of your mother—"

At this she laughed,—a shrill little laugh with tears submerging it.

"You may laugh, but it is true!" he went on, in a righteously aggrieved tone—"I have done you no harm,—on the contrary, you have to thank me for a great deal of happiness—"

She gave a tragic gesture of eloquent despair.

"Oh, yes, I have to thank you!" she said, and her voice now vibrated with intense and passionate sorrow—"I have to thank you for so much—for so very much indeed! You have been so kind and good! Yes! And you have never thought of yourself or your own pleasure at all—but only of me! And I have been as safe with you as in my mother's arms, ... yes!—you have been quite as careful of me as she was!" And a wan smile flitted over her agonised face— "All this I have to thank you for!—but you have ruined me just the same—not my body, but my soul!"

He looked at her,—she returned his gaze unflinchingly with eyes that glowed like burning stars—and he thought she was, as he put it to himself, "calming down." He laughed, a little uneasily.

"Soul is an unknown quantity," he said—"It doesn't count."

She seemed not to hear him.

"You have ruined my soul!" she repeated steadily—"You have stolen it from God—you have made it all your own—for your 'amusement'! What remainder of life have you left to me? Nothing! I have no hope, no faith, no power to work—no ambition to fulfil—no dreams to realise! You gave me love—as I thought!—and I lived; you take love from me, and I die!"

He bent his eyes upon her with a kind, almost condescending gentleness,—his personal vanity was immense, and the utter humiliation of her love for him flattered the deep sense he had of his own value.

"Dear little goose, you will not die!" he said—"For heaven's sake have done with all this sentimental talk!—I am not a man who can tolerate it. You are such a pleasant creature when you are cheerful and self-possessed,—so bright and clever and companionable—and there is no reason why we shouldn't make love to each other again as often as we like,—but change and novelty are good for both of us. Come!—kiss me!—be a good child—and let us part friends!"

He approached her,—there was a smile on his lips—a smile in which lurked a suspicion of mockery as well as victorious self- satisfaction. She saw it—and swiftly there came swooping over her brain the horrible realisation of the truth—that it was all over!—that never, never again would she be able to dwell on the amorous looks and words and love-phrases of HER "Amadis de Jocelyn!"—that no happy future was in store for her with him— that he had no interest whatever in her cherished memories of Briar Farm, and that he would never care to accept the right of dwelling there even if she secured it for him,—moreover, that he viewed her very work with indifference, and had no concern as to her name or fame—so that everything—every pretty fancy, every radiant hope, every happy possibility was at an end. Life stretched before her dreary as the dreariest desert—for her, whose nature was to love but once, there was no gleam of light in all the world's cruel darkness! A red mist swam before her eyes— black clouds seemed descending upon her and whirling round about her—she looked wildly from right to left, as though seeking to escape from some invisible pursuer. Startled at her expression Jocelyn tried to hold her—but she shook him off. She made a few unsteady steps along the floor.

"What is it?" he said—"Innocent—don't stare like that!"

She smiled strangely and nodded at him—she was fingering the plant of marguerite daisies that stood in its accustomed place between the easel and the wall. She plucked a flower and began hurriedly stripping off its petals.

"'Il m'aime—un peu!—beaucoup—passionement—pas du tout!' Pas du tout!" she cried—"Amadis! Amadis de Jocelyn! You hear what it says? Pas du tout! You promised it should never come to that!—but it has come!"

She threw away the stripped flower, ... there was a quick hot throbbing behind her temples—she put up her hands—then all suddenly a sharp involuntary scream broke from her lips. He sprang towards her to seize and silence her—she stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth.

"I'm sorry!" she panted—"Forgive!—I couldn't help it!—Amadis— Amadis!—"

And she flung herself against his breast. Her eyes, large and feverishly brilliant, searched his face for any sign of tenderness, and searched in vain.

"Say it isn't true!" she whispered—"Amadis—oh my love, say it isn't true!" Her little hands caressed him—she drew his head down towards her and her pleading kiss touched his lips. "Say that you didn't really mean it!—that you love me still—Amadis!—you could not be cruel!—you will not break my heart!—"

But he was too angry to be pitiful. Her scream had infuriated him —he thought it would alarm the street, bring up the servant, and give rise to all sorts of scandal in which he might be implicated, and he roughly loosened her clinging arms from his neck and pushed her from him.

"Break your heart!" he exclaimed, bitterly—"I wish I could break your temper! You behave like a madwoman; I shall go away to my room! When I come back I expect to find you calm, and reasonable— or else, gone! Remember!"

She stood gazing at him as though petrified. He swung past her rapidly, and opening the principal door of the studio passed through it and disappeared. She ran to it—tried to open it—it was locked on the other side. She was alone.

She looked about her bewildered, like a child that has lost its way. She saw her pretty little velvet hat on the settee where she had left it, and in a trembling hurry she put it on—then paused. Going on tip-toe to the easel, she looked vaguely at her own portrait and smiled.

"You must be good and reasonable!" she said, waving her hand to it—"When you have lost every thing in the world, you must be calm! You mustn't think of love any more!—that's only a fancy!— you mustn't—no, you mustn't have any fancies or your dove will fly away! You are holding it to your heart just now—and it seems quite safe—but it will fly away presently—yes!—it will fly away!"

She lifted the painter's palette and looked curiously at it,—then took up the brush, moist with colour, which Jocelyn had lately used. Softly she kissed its handle and laid it down again. Then she waited, with a puzzled air, and listened. There was no sound. Another moment, and she moved noiselessly, almost creepingly to the little private door by which she had always entered the studio, and unlocking it, slipped out leaving the key in the lock. It was raining heavily, but she was not conscious of this,—she had no very clear idea what she was doing. There was a curious calm upon her,—a kind of cold assertiveness, like that of a dying person who has strength enough to ask for some dear friend's presence before departing from life. She walked steadily to the place where her motor-brougham waited for her, and entered it. The chauffeur looked at her for orders.

"To Paddington Station," she said—"I am going out of town. Stop at the first telegraph office on your way."

The man touched his hat. He thought she seemed very ill, but it was his place to obey instructions, not to proffer sympathy. At the telegraph office she got out, moving like one in a dream and sent a wire to Miss Leigh.

"Am staying with friends out of town. Don't wait up for me."

Back to the brougham she went, still in a dream-like apathy, and at Paddington dismissed the chauffeur.

"If I want you in the morning, I will let you know," she said, with matter-of-fact composure, and turning, was lost at once in the crowd of passengers pouring into the station.

The man was for a moment puzzled by the paleness of her face and the wildness of her eyes, but like most of his class, made little effort to think beyond the likelihood of everything being "all right to-morrow," and went his way.

Meanwhile Miss Leigh had returned to her house to find it bereft of its living sunshine. There were two telegrams awaiting her,— one from Lord Blythe, urging her to start at once with Innocent for Italy—the other from Innocent herself, which alarmed her by its unusual purport. In all the time she had lived with her "god- mother" the girl had never stayed away a night, and that she was doing so now worried and perplexed the old lady to an acute degree of nervous anxiety. John Harrington happened to call that evening, and on hearing what had occurred, became equally anxious with herself, and, moved by some curious instinct, went, on his way home, to Jocelyn's studio to ascertain if Innocent had been there that afternoon. But he knocked and rang at the door in vain,—all was dark and silent. Amadis de Jocelyn was a wise man in his generation. When he had returned to confront Innocent again and find her, as he had suggested, either recovered from her "temper" and "calm and reasonable"—or else "gone"—he had rejoiced to see that she had accepted the latter alternative. There was no trace of her save the unlocked private door of the studio, which he now locked, putting the key in his pocket. He gave a long breath of relief—a sort of "Thank God that's over!"—and arranged his affairs of both art and business with such dispatch as to leave for Paris in peace and comfort by the night boat-train.