Many things in life come too late to be of rescue or service, and justice is always tardy in arrival. Too late was Pierce Armitage, after long years of absence, to give his innocent child the simple heritage of a father"s acknowledgment; he could but look upon her dead face and lay flowers on her in her little coffin. The world heard of the sudden death of the young and brilliant writer with a faintly curious concern--but soon forgot that she had ever existed. No one knew, no one guessed the story of her love for the French painter, Amadis de Jocelyn--he was abroad at the time of her death, and only three persons secretly connected him with the sorrow of her end--and these were Lord Blythe, Miss Leigh and Robin Clifford. Yet even these said nothing, restrained by the thought of casting the smallest scandal on the sweet l.u.s.tre of her name. And Amadis de Jocelyn himself?--had he no regret?--no pity? If the truth must be told, he was more relieved than pained,--more flattered than sorry! The girl had died for him,--well!--that was more or less a pleasing result of his power! She was a silly child--obsessed by a "fancy"--it was not his fault if he could not live up to that "fancy"--he liked "facts." His picture of her was the success of the Salon that year, and he was admired and congratulated,--this was enough for him.
"One of your victims, Amadis?" asked a vivacious society woman he knew, critically studying the portrait on the first day of its exhibition.
He nodded, smilingly.
"Really? And yet--Innocent?"
He nodded again.
"Very much so! She is dead!"
Sorrow and joy, strangely intermingled, divided the last years of life for good Miss Leigh. The shock of the loss and death of the girl to whom she had become profoundly attached, followed by the startling discovery that her old lover Pierce Armitage was alive, proved almost too much for her frail nerves--but her grat.i.tude to G.o.d for the joy of seeing the beloved face once again, and hearing the beloved voice, was so touching and sincere that Armitage, smitten to the heart by the story of her long fidelity and her tenderness for his forsaken daughter, offered to marry her, earnestly praying her to let him share life with her to the end. This she gently refused,--but for the rest of her days she--with him and Lord Blythe--made a trio of friends,--a compact of affection and true devotion such as is seldom known in this work-a-day world. They were nearly always together,--and the memory of Innocent, with her young life"s little struggle against fate ending so soon in disaster, was a link never to be broken save by death, which breaks all.
L"ENVOI
A few evenings since, I who have written this true story of a young girl"s romantic fancy, pa.s.sed by Briar Farm. The air was very still, and a red sun was sinking in a wintry sky. The old Tudor farmhouse looked beautiful in the clear half-frosty light--but the trees in the old bye road were leafless, and though the courtyard gate stood open there were no flowers to be seen beyond, and no doves flying to and fro among the picturesque gables. I knew, as I walked slowly along, that just a mile distant, in the small churchyard of the village, Innocent, the "base-born" child of sorrow, lay asleep by her "Dad," the last of the Jocelyns,--I knew also that not far off from their graves, the mortal remains of the faithful Priscilla were also resting in peace--and I felt, with a heavy sadness at my heart, that the fame of the old house was wearing out and that presently its tradition, like many legendary and romantic things, would soon be forgotten. But just at the turn of a path, where a low stile gives access to the road, I saw a man standing, his arms folded and leaning on the topmost bar of the stile--a man neither old nor young, with a strong quiet face, and almost snow-white hair--a man quite alone, whose att.i.tude and bearing expressed the very spirit of solitude. I knew him for the master of the farm--a man greatly honoured throughout the neighbourhood for justice and kindness to all whom he employed, but also a man stricken by a great sorrow for which there can be no remedy.
"Will he never marry?" I thought,--but as I put the question to myself I dismissed it almost as a blasphemy. For Robin Clifford is one of those rarest souls among men who loves but once, and when love is lost finds it not again. Except,--perhaps?--in a purer world than ours, where our "fancies" may prove to have had a surer foundation than our "facts."
THE END