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.