"It was all very foolish, but I loved Willowsmere, and love it still.
And I often saw in the fields on the other side of the river which did
not belong to the estate, a little girl about my own age, playing all by
herself and making long daisy-chains and buttercup balls,--a little girl
with long fair curls and a sweet baby face. I wanted to know her and
speak to her, but my nurse would never let me because she was supposed
to be 'beneath' me." Lady Sibyl's lip curled scornfully at this
recollection. "Yet she was well-born; she was the orphan child of a very
distinguished scholar and gentleman, and had been adopted by the
physician who attended her mother's deathbed, she having no living
relatives left to take care of her. And she--that little fair-haired
girl,--was Mavis Clare."
As this name was uttered, a sort of hush fell on our party as though an
'Angelus' had rung; and Lucio looking across at me with peculiar
intentness asked,
"Have you never heard of Mavis Clare, Tempest?"
I thought a moment before replying. Yes,--I had heard the
name,--connected with literature in some dim and distant way, but I
could not remember when or how. For I never paid any attention to the
names of women who chose to associate themselves with the Arts, as I had
the usual masculine notion that all they did, whether in painting, music
or writing, must of necessity be trash and unworthy of comment. Women,
I loftily considered, were created to amuse men,--not to instruct them.
"Mavis Clare is a genius,"--Lady Sibyl said presently--"If Mr Tempest
has not heard of her, there is no doubt he _will_ hear. I often regret
that I never made her acquaintance in those old days at
Willowsmere,--the stupidity of my nurse often rankles in my mind.
'Beneath me'--indeed!--and how very much she is above me now! She still
lives down there,--her adopted parents are dead and she rents the lovely
little house they inhabited. She has bought some extra land about it and
improved the place wonderfully. Indeed I have never seen a more ideal
poet's corner than Lily Cottage."
I was silent, feeling somewhat in the background on account of my
ignorance as to the gifts and the position of the individual they all
seemed to recognize as a celebrity of importance.
"Rather an odd name, Mavis, isn't it?"--I at last ventured to observe.
"Yes,--but it suits her wonderfully. She sings quite as sweetly as any
thrush, so she merits her designation."
"What has she done in literature?" I continued.
"Oh,--only a novel!" replied Lucio with a smile--"But it has a quality
unusual to novels; it lives! I hope, Tempest, that your forthcoming work
will enjoy the same vitality."
Here Lord Elton who had been more or less brooding darkly over his glass
of wine ever since I had mentioned my purchase of Willowsmere, roused
himself from his reverie.
"Why, God bless my soul!" he exclaimed--"You don't mean to tell me you
have written a novel Mr Tempest?" (Was it possible he had never noticed
all the prominent advertisements of my book in every paper, I thought
indignantly!) "What do you want to do that for, with your immense
position?"
"He hankers after fame!" said Lucio half kindly, half satirically.
"But you've got fame!" declared the Earl emphatically--"Everybody knows
who you are by this time."
"Ah, my dear lord, that is not enough for the aspirations of my gifted
friend"--responded Lucio, speaking for me, his eyes darkening with that
mystic shadow of mingled sorrow and scorn which so frequently clouded
their lustrous brilliancy; "He does not particularly care for the
'immense position' that is due to wealth alone, because that does not
lift him a jot higher than Maple of Tottenham Court Road. He seeks to
soar beyond the furniture man,--and who shall blame him? He would be
known for that indescribable quality called Genius,--for high thoughts,
poetry, divine instincts, and prophetic probings into the heart of
humanity,--in short, for the power of the Pen, which topples down great
kingdoms like card-houses and sticks foolscaps on the heads of kings.
Generally it is the moneyless man or woman who is endowed with this
unpurchaseable power,--this independence of action and indifference to
opinion,--the wealthy seldom do anything but spend or hoard. But Tempest
means to unite for once in his own person the two most strenuously
opposed forces in nature,--genius and cash,--or in other words, God and
Mammon."
Lady Sibyl turned her head towards me;--there was a look of doubt and
wonder on her beautiful face.
"I am afraid,"--she said half smiling, "that the claims of society will
take up too much of your time, Mr Tempest, to allow you to continue the
writing of books. I remember you told me the other evening that you were
about to publish a novel. I suppose you were--originally I mean--an
author by profession?"
A curious sense of anger burned dully within me. 'Originally' an author?
Was I not one still? Was I to be given credit for nothing but my
banking-book? 'Originally'? Why, I had never been an actual 'author'
till now,--I had simply been a wandering literary hack,--a stray 'super'
of Grub Street, occasionally engaged to write articles 'to order' on
any subject that came uppermost, at a starvation rate of pay, without
any visible prospect of rising from that lowest and dirtiest rung of the
literary ladder. I felt myself growing red, then pale,--and I saw that
Lucio was looking at me fixedly.
"I _am_ an author, Lady Sibyl"--I said at last--"and I hope I may soon
prove my right to be acknowledged as one. 'Author' is in my opinion, a
prouder title than king, and I do not think any social claims will deter
me from following the profession of literature, which I look upon as the
highest in the world."
Lord Elton fidgetted uneasily in his chair.
"But your people"--he said--"Your family--are they literary?"
"No members of my family are now living,"--I answered somewhat
stiffly--"My father was John Tempest of Rexmoor."
"Indeed!" and the Earl's face brightened considerably--"Dear me, dear
me! I used to meet him often in the hunting field years ago. You come of
a fine old stock, sir!--the Tempests of Rexmoor are well and honourably
known in county chronicles."
I said nothing, feeling a trifle heated in temper, though I could not
have quite explained why.
"One begins to wonder,"--said Lucio then in his soft smooth
accents--"when one is the descendant of a good English county family,--a
distinct cause for pride!--and moreover has the still more substantial
fact of a large fortune to support that high lineage, why one should
trouble to fight for merely literary honours! You are far too modest in
your ambitions, Tempest!--high-seated as you are upon bank-notes and
bullion, with all the glory of effulgent county chronicles behind you,
you still stoop to clutch the laurel! Fie, my dear fellow! You degrade
yourself by this desire to join the company of the immortals!"
His satirical tone was not lost upon the company; and I, who saw that
in his own special way he was defending the claims of literature against
those of mere place and money, felt soothed and grateful. The Earl
looked a trifle annoyed.
"That's all very fine," he said--"But you see it isn't as if Mr Tempest
were driven by necessity to write for his living"--
"One may love work for the work's sake without any actual necessity for
doing it,"--I interposed--"For example,--this Mavis Clare you speak
of,--is she,--a woman,--driven by necessity?"
"Mavis Clare hasn't a penny in the world that she does not earn,"--said
Lord Elton gruffly--"I suppose that if she did not write she would
starve."
Diana Chesney laughed.
"I guess she's a long way off starvation just now,"--she remarked, her
brown eyes twinkling--"Why, she's as proud as the proudest,--drives in
the Park in her victoria and pair with the best in the land, and knows
all the 'swagger' people. She's nowhere near Grub Street _I_ should say.
I hear she's a splendid business woman, and more than a match for the
publishers all round."
"Well I should rather doubt that,"--said the Earl with a chuckle. "It
needs the devil himself to match the publishers."
"You are right!"--said Lucio--"In fact I daresay that in the various
'phases' or transmigrations of the spirit into differing forms of earthy
matter, the devil (should he exist at all) has frequently become a
publisher,--and a particularly benevolent publisher too!--by way of
diversion."
We all smiled.
"Well, I should imagine Mavis Clare to be a match for anybody or
anything,"--said Lady Sibyl--"Of course she is not rich,--but she spends
her money wisely and to effective advantage. I do not know her
personally,--I wish I did; but I have read her books, which are quite
out of the common. She is a most independent creature too; quite
indifferent to opinions"--
"I suppose she must be extremely plain then"--I observed; "Plain women
always try to do something more or less startling in order to attract
the attention denied to their personality."
"True,--but that would not apply to Miss Clare. She is pretty, and knows
how to dress besides."
"_Such_ a virtue in literary women!" exclaimed Diana Chesney--"Some of
them _are_ such dowdies!"
"Most people of culture," went on Lady Sibyl--"in our set at any rate,
are accustomed to look upon Miss Clare as quite an exception to the
usual run of authors. She is charming in herself as well as in her
books, and she goes everywhere. She writes with inspiration,--and always
has something so new to say--"
"That of course all the critics are down upon her?" queried Lucio.
"Oh, naturally! But _we_ never read reviews."
"Nor anyone else I should hope,"--said Lord Elton with a laugh--"except
the fellows who write them, ha--ha--ha! I call it damned
impertinence--excuse the word--on the part of a newspaper hack to
presume to teach _me_ what I ought to read, or what I ought to
appreciate. I'm quite capable of forming my own judgment on any book
that ever was written. But I avoid all the confounded 'new'
poets,--avoid 'em like poison, sir--ha--ha! Anything but a 'new' poet;
the old ones are good enough for me! Why sir, these reviewers who give
themselves such airs with a pennorth of ink and a pen, are mostly
half-grown half-educated boys who for a couple of guineas a week
undertake to tell the public what _they_ think of such and such a book,
as if anyone cared a jot about their green opinions! Ridiculous--quite
ridiculous!--what do they take the public for I wonder! Editors of
responsible journals ought to know better than to employ such young
coxcombs just because they can get them cheap----"
At this juncture the butler came up behind his master's chair and
whispered a few words. The Earl's brow clouded,--then he addressed his
sister-in-law,--
"Charlotte, Lady Elton sends word that she will come into the
drawing-room to-night. Perhaps you had better go and see that she is
made comfortable." And, as Miss Charlotte rose, he turned to us
saying--"My wife is seldom well enough to see visitors, but this evening
she feels inclined for a little change and distraction from the monotony
of her sick-room. It will be very kind of you two gentlemen to entertain
her,--she cannot speak much, but her hearing and sight are excellent,
and she takes great interest in all that is going on. Dear dear me!" and
he heaved a short troubled sigh--"She used to be one of the brightest of
women!"
"The sweet Countess!" murmured Miss Chesney with patronizing
tenderness--"She is quite lovely still!"
Lady Sibyl glanced at her with a sudden haughty frown which showed me
plainly what a rebellious temper the young beauty held in control; and I
fell straightway more in love,--according to _my_ idea of love,--than
ever. I confess I like a woman to have a certain amount of temper. I
cannot endure your preternaturally amiable female who can find nothing
in all the length or breadth of the globe to move her to any other
expression than a fatuous smile. I love to see the danger-flash in
bright eyes,--the delicate quiver of pride in the lines of a lovely
mouth, and the warm flush of indignation on fair cheeks. It all suggests
spirit, and untamed will; and rouses in a man the love of mastery that
is born in his nature, urging him to conquer and subdue that which seems
unconquerable. And all the desire of such conquest was strong within me,
when at the close of dinner I rose and held the door open for the ladies
to pass out of the room. As the fair Sibyl went, the violets she wore at
her bosom dropped. I picked them up and made my first move.
"May I keep these?" I said in a low tone.
Her breath came and went quickly,--but she looked straight in my eyes
with a smile that perfectly comprehended my hidden meaning.
"You may!" she answered.
I bowed,--closed the door behind her, and secreting the flowers,
returned, well-satisfied, to my place at table.