The blood rushed to my face, and I stopped abruptly.
"Let us go back," I said.
"Why?"
"Because I do not know Miss Clare and do not want to know her. Literary
women are my abhorrence,--they are always more or less unsexed."
"You are thinking of the 'New' women I suppose,--but you flatter
them,--they never had any sex to lose. The self-degrading creatures who
delineate their fictional heroines as wallowing in unchastity, and who
write freely on subjects which men would hesitate to name, are unnatural
hybrids of no-sex. Mavis Clare is not one of them,--she is an
'old-fashioned' young woman. Mademoiselle Derino, the dancer, is
'unsexed,' but you did not object to her on that score,--on the contrary
I believe you have shown your appreciation of her talents by spending a
considerable amount of cash upon her."
"That's not a fair comparison"--I answered hotly--"Mademoiselle Derino
amused me for a time."
"And was not your rival in art!" said Lucio with a little malicious
smile--"I see! Still,--as far as the question of being 'unsexed' goes,
I, personally, consider that a woman who shows the power of her
intellect is more to be respected than the woman who shows the power of
her legs. But men always prefer the legs,--just as they prefer the devil
to the Deity. All the same, I think, as we have time to spare, we may as
well see this genius."
"Genius!" I echoed contemptuously.
"Feminine twaddler, then!" he suggested, laughing--"Let us see this
feminine twaddler. She will no doubt prove as amusing as Mademoiselle
Derino in her way. I shall ring the bell and ask if she is at home."
He advanced towards the creeper-covered porch,--but I stood back,
mortified and sullen, determined not to accompany him inside the house
if he were admitted. Suddenly a blithe peal of musical laughter sounded
through the air, and a clear voice exclaimed--
"Oh Tricksy! You wicked boy! Take it back directly and apologise!"
Lucio peered through the fence, and then beckoned to me energetically.
"There she is!" he whispered, "There is the dyspeptic, sour, savage old
blue-stocking,--there, on the lawn,--by Heaven!--she's enough to strike
terror into the heart of any man--and millionaire!"
I looked where he pointed, and saw nothing but a fair-haired woman in a
white gown, sitting in a low basket-chair, with a tiny toy terrier on
her lap. The terrier was jealously guarding a large square dog-biscuit
nearly as big as himself, and at a little distance off sat a magnificent
rough-coated St Bernard, wagging his feathery tail to and fro, with
every sign of good-humour and enjoyment. The position was evident at a
glance,--the small dog had taken his huge companion's biscuit from him
and had conveyed it to his mistress,--a canine joke which seemed to be
appreciated and understood by all the parties concerned. But as I
watched the little group, I did not believe that she whom I saw was
Mavis Clare. That small head was surely never made for the wearing of
deathless laurels, but rather for a garland of roses, (sweet and
perishable) twined by a lover's hand. No such slight feminine creature
as the one I now looked upon could ever be capable of the intellectual
grasp and power of 'Differences,' the book I secretly admired and
wondered at, but which I had anonymously striven to 'quash' in its
successful career. The writer of such a work, I imagined, must needs be
of a more or less strong physique, with pronounced features and an
impressive personality. This butterfly-thing, playing with her dog, was
no type of a 'blue-stocking,' and I said as much to Lucio.
"That cannot be Miss Clare," I said--"More likely a visitor,--or perhaps
the companion-secretary. The novelist must be very different in
appearance to that frivolous young person in white, whose dress is
distinctly Parisian, and who seems to have nothing whatever to do but
amuse herself."
"Tricksy!" said the clear voice again--"Take back the biscuit and
apologise!"
The tiny terrier looked round with an innocently abstracted air, as if
in the earnestness of his own thoughts, he had not quite caught the
meaning of the sentence.
"Tricksy!" and the voice became more imperative--"Take it back and
apologise!"
With a comical expression of resignation to circumstances, 'Tricksy'
seized the large biscuit, and holding it in his teeth with gingerly
care, jumped from his mistress's knee and trotting briskly up to the St
Bernard who was still wagging his tail and smiling as visibly as dogs
often can smile, restored his stolen goods with three short yapping
barks as much as to say "There! take it!" The St Bernard rose in all his
majestic bulk and sniffed at it,--then sniffed his small friend,
apparently in dignified doubt as to which was terrier and which was
biscuit,--then lying down again, he gave himself up to the pleasure of
munching his meal, the while "Tricksy" with wild barks of delight
performed a sort of mad war-dance round and round him by way of
entertainment. This piece of dog-comedy was still going on, when Lucio
turned away from his point of observation at the fence, and going up to
the gate, rang the bell. A neat maid-servant answered the summons.
"Is Miss Clare at home?" he asked.
"Yes sir. But I am not sure whether she will receive you,--" the maid
replied--"Unless you have an appointment?"
"We have no appointment,"--said Lucio,--"but if you will take these
cards,--" here he turned to me--"Geoffrey, give me one of yours!" I
complied, somewhat reluctantly. "If you will take these cards"--he
resumed--"to Miss Clare, it is just possible she may be kind enough to
see us. If not, it will be our loss."
He spoke so gently and with such an ingratiating manner that I could see
the servant was at once prepossessed in his favour.
"Step in, sir, if you please,--" she said smiling and opening the gate.
He obeyed with alacrity,--and I, who a moment ago had resolved not to
enter the place, found myself passively following him under an archway
of sprouting young leaves and early budding jessamine into 'Lily
Cottage'--which was to prove one day, though I knew it not then, the
only haven of peace and security I should ever crave for,--and, craving,
be unable to win!
The house was much larger than it looked from the outside; the
entrance-hall was square and lofty, and panelled with fine old carved
oak, and the drawing-room into which we were shown was one of the most
picturesque and beautiful apartments I had ever seen. There were flowers
everywhere,--books,--rare bits of china,--elegant trifles that only a
woman of perfect taste would have the sense to select and
appreciate,--on one or two of the side-tables and on the grand piano
were autograph-portraits of many of the greatest celebrities in Europe.
Lucio strolled about the room, making soft comments.
"Here is the Autocrat of all the Russias," he said, pausing before a
fine portrait of the Tsar--"Signed by the Imperial hand too. Now what
has the 'feminine twaddler' done to deserve that honour I wonder! Here
in strange contrast, is the wild-haired Paderewski,--and beside him the
perennial Patti,--there is Her Majesty of Italy, and here we have the
Prince of Wales,--all autographed likenesses. Upon my word, Miss Clare
seems to attract a great many notabilities around her without the aid of
hard cash. I wonder how she does it, Geoffrey?"--and his eyes sparkled
half maliciously--"Can it be a case of genius after all? Look at those
lilies!" and he pointed to a mass of white bloom in one of the
windows--"Are they not far more beautiful creatures than men and women?
Dumb--yet eloquent of purity!--no wonder the painters choose them as the
only flowers suitable for the adornment of angels."
As he spoke the door opened, and the woman we had seen on the lawn
entered, carrying her toy terrier on one arm. Was she Mavis Clare? or
some-one sent to say that the novelist could not receive us? I wondered
silently, looking at her in surprise and something of confusion,--Lucio
advanced with an odd mingling of humility and appeal in his manner which
was new to me.
"We must apologise for our intrusion, Miss Clare,"--he said--"But
happening to pass your house, we could not resist making an attempt to
see you. My name is----Rimânez"--he hesitated oddly for a second, then
went on--"and this is my friend Mr Geoffrey Tempest, the author,----"
the young lady raised her eyes to mine with a little smile and courteous
bend of her head--"he has, as I daresay you know, become the owner of
Willowsmere Court. You will be neighbours, and I hope, friends. In any
case if we have committed a breach of etiquette in venturing to call
upon you without previous introduction, you must try and forgive us! It
is difficult,--to me impossible,--to pass the dwelling of a celebrity
without offering homage to the presiding genius within."
Mavis Clare,--for it was Mavis Clare,--seemed not to have heard the
intended compliment.
"You are very welcome," she said simply, advancing with a pretty grace,
and extending her hand to each of us in turn, "I am quite accustomed to
visits from strangers. But I already know Mr Tempest very well by
reputation. Won't you sit down?"
She motioned us to chairs in the lily-decked window-corner, and rang the
bell. Her maid appeared.
"Tea, Janet."
This order given, she seated herself near us, still holding her little
dog curled up against her like a small ball of silk. I tried to
converse, but could find nothing suitable to say,--the sight of her
filled me with too great a sense of self-reproach and shame. She was
such a quiet graceful creature, so slight and dainty, so perfectly
unaffected and simple in manner, that as I thought of the slaughtering
article I had written against her work I felt like a low brute who had
been stoning a child. And yet,--after all it was her genius I
hated,--the force and passion of that mystic quality which wherever it
appears, compels the world's attention,--this was the gift she had that
I lacked and coveted. Moved by the most conflicting sensations I gazed
abstractedly out on the shady old garden,--I heard Lucio conversing on
trifling matters of society and literature generally, and every now and
then her bright laugh rang out like a little peal of bells. Soon I felt,
rather than saw, that she was looking steadily at me,--and turning, I
met her eyes,--deep dense blue eyes, candidly grave and clear.
"Is this your first visit to Willowsmere Court?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered, making an effort to appear more at my ease--"I bought
the place,--on the recommendation of my friend the prince here,--without
looking at it."
"So I heard,"--she said, still observing me curiously--"And you are
satisfied with it?"
"More than satisfied--I am delighted. It exceeds all my best
expectations."
"Mr Tempest is going to marry the daughter of the former owner of
Willowsmere,"--put in Lucio,--"No doubt you have seen it announced in
the papers?"
"Yes;"--she responded with a slight smile--"I have seen it--and I think
Mr Tempest is much to be congratulated. Lady Sibyl is very lovely,--I
remember her as a beautiful child when I was a child myself--I never
spoke to her, but I often saw her. She must be charmed at the prospect
of returning as a bride to the old home she loved so well."
Here the servant entered with the tea, and Miss Clare, putting down her
tiny dog, went to the table to dispense it. I watched her move across
the room with a sense of vague wonder and reluctant admiration,--she
rather resembled a picture by Greuze in her soft white gown with a pale
rose nestled amid the old Flemish lace at her throat,--and as she turned
her head towards us, the sunlight caught her fair hair and turned it to
the similitude of a golden halo circling her brows. She was not a
beauty; but she possessed an undoubted individual charm,--a delicate
attractiveness, which silently asserted itself, as the breath of
honeysuckle hidden in the tangles of a hedge, will delight the wayfarer
with sweet fragrance though the flowers be unseen.
"Your book was very clever, Mr Tempest"--she said suddenly, smiling at
me--"I read it as soon as it came out. But do you know I think your
article was even cleverer?"