Scarcely had we stepped out on the lawn before an unpleasant incident
occurred which might have ended dangerously. At his mistress's approach
the big St Bernard dog rose from the sunny corner where he had been
peacefully dozing, and prepared to greet her,--but as soon as he
perceived us he stopped short with an ominous growl. Before Miss Clare
could utter a warning word, he made a couple of huge bounds and sprang
savagely at Lucio as though to tear him in pieces,--Lucio with admirable
presence of mind caught him firmly by the throat and forced him
backwards. Mavis turned deathly pale.
"Let me hold him! He will obey me!" she cried, placing her little hand
on the great dog's neck--"Down, Emperor! Down! How dare you! Down sir!"
In a moment 'Emperor' dropped to the ground, and crouched abjectly at
her feet, breathing heavily and trembling in every limb. She held him by
the collar, and looked up at Lucio who was perfectly composed, though
his eyes flashed dangerously.
"I am so very sorry!" she murmured,--"I forgot,--you told me dogs do not
like you. But what a singularly marked antipathy, is it not? I cannot
understand it. Emperor is generally so good-natured,--I must apologize
for his bad conduct--it is quite unusual. I hope he has not hurt you?"
"Not at all!" returned Lucio affably but with a cold smile; "I hope I
have not hurt _him_,--or distressed _you_!"
She made no reply, but led the St Bernard away and was absent for a few
minutes. While she was gone, Lucio's brow clouded, and his face grew
very stern.
"What do you think of her?" he asked me abruptly.
"I hardly know what to think," I answered abstractedly--"She is very
different to what I imagined. Her dogs are rather unpleasant company!"
"They are honest animals!" he said morosely--"They are no doubt
accustomed to candour in their mistress, and therefore object to
personified lies."
"Speak for yourself!" I said irritably--"They object to you, chiefly."
"Am I not fully aware of that?" he retorted--"and do I not speak for
myself? You do not suppose I would call you a personified lie, do
you,--even if it were true! I would not be so uncivil. But I am a living
lie, and knowing it I admit it, which gives me a certain claim to
honesty above the ordinary run of men. This woman-wearer of laurels is a
personified truth!--imagine it!--she has no occasion to pretend to be
anything else than she is! No wonder she is famous!"
I said nothing, as just then the subject of our conversation returned,
tranquil and smiling, and did her best, with the tact and grace of a
perfect hostess, to make us forget her dog's ferocious conduct, by
escorting us through all the prettiest turns and twisting paths of her
garden, which was quite a bower of spring beauty. She talked to us both
with equal ease, brightness and cleverness, though I observed that she
studied Lucio with close interest, and watched his looks and movements
with more curiosity than liking. Passing under an arching grove of
budding syringas, we presently came to an open court-yard paved with
blue and white tiles, having in its centre a picturesque dove-cote built
in the form of a Chinese pagoda. Here pausing, Mavis clapped her hands.
A cloud of doves, white, grey, brown, and opalescent answered the
summons, circling round and round her head, and flying down in excited
groups at her feet.
"Here are my reviewers!" she said laughing--"Are they not pretty
creatures? The ones I know best are named after their respective
journals,--there are plenty of anonymous ones of course, who flock in
with the rest. Here, for instance, is the 'Saturday Review'"--and she
picked up a strutting bird with coral-tinted feet, who seemed to rather
like the attention shown to him--"He fights with all his companions and
drives them away from the food whenever he can. He is a quarrelsome
creature!"--here she stroked the bird's head--"You never know how to
please him,--he takes offence at the corn sometimes and will only eat
peas, or _vice versa_. He quite deserves his name,--go away, old boy!"
and she flung the pigeon in the air and watched it soaring up and
down--"He _is_ such a comical old grumbler! There is the 'Speaker'"--and
she pointed to a fat fussy fantail--"He struts very well, and fancies
he's important, you know, but he isn't. Over there is 'Public
Opinion,'--that one half-asleep on the wall; next to him is the
'Spectator,'--you see he has two rings round his eyes like spectacles.
That brown creature with the fluffy wings all by himself on that
flower-pot is the 'Nineteenth Century,'--the little bird with the green
neck is the 'Westminster Gazette,' and the fat one sitting on the
platform of the cote is the 'Pall-Mall.' He knows his name very
well--see!" and she called merrily--"Pall Mall! Come boy!--come here!"
The bird obeyed at once, and flying down from the cote settled on her
shoulder. "There are so many others,--it is difficult to distinguish
them sometimes,"--she continued,--"Whenever I get a bad review I name a
pigeon,--it amuses me. That draggle-tailed one with the muddy feet is
the 'Sketch,'--he is not at all a well-bred bird I must tell you!--that
smart-looking dove with the purple breast is the 'Graphic,' and that
bland old grey thing is the 'I. L. N.' short for 'Illustrated London
News.' Those three white ones are respectively 'Daily Telegraph,'
'Morning Post,' and 'Standard.' Now see them all!" and taking a covered
basket from a corner she began to scatter corn and peas and various
grains in lavish quantities all over the court. For a moment we could
scarcely see the sky, so thickly the birds flocked together, struggling,
fighting, swooping downwards, and soaring upwards,--but the wingëd
confusion soon gave place to something like order when they were all on
the ground and busy, selecting their respective favourite foods from the
different sorts provided for their choice.
"You are indeed a sweet-natured philosopher"--said Lucio smiling, "if
you can symbolize your adverse reviewers by a flock of doves!"
She laughed merrily.
"Well, it is a remedy against all irritation,"--she returned; "I used to
worry a good deal over my work, and wonder why it was that the press
people were so unnecessarily hard upon me, when they showed so much
leniency and encouragement to far worse writers,--but after a little
serious consideration, finding that critical opinion carried no sort of
conviction whatever to the public, I determined to trouble no more about
it,--except in the way of doves!"
"In the way of doves, you feed your reviewers,"--I observed.
"Exactly! And I suppose I help to feed them even as women and men!" she
said--"They get something from their editors for 'slashing' my
work,--and they probably make a little more out of selling their 'review
copies.' So you see the dove-emblem holds good throughout. But you have
not seen the 'Athenæum,'--oh, you _must_ see him!"
With laughter still lurking in her blue eyes, she took us out of the
pigeon-court, and led the way round to a sequestered and shady corner of
the garden, where, in a large aviary-cage fitted up for its special
convenience, sat a solemn white owl. The instant it perceived us, it
became angry, and ruffling up its downy feathers, rolled its glistening
yellow eyes vindictively and opened its beak. Two smaller owls sat in
the background, pressed close together,--one grey, the other brown.
"Cross old boy!" said Mavis, addressing the spiteful-looking creature
in the sweetest of accents--"Haven't you found any mice to kill to-day?
Oh, what wicked eyes!--what a snappy mouth!" Then turning to us, she
went on--"Isn't he a lovely owl? Doesn't he look wise?--but as a matter
of fact he's just as stupid as ever he can be. That is why I call him
the 'Athenæum'! He looks so profound, you'd fancy he knows everything,
but he really thinks of nothing but killing mice all the time,--which
limits his intelligence considerably!"
Lucio laughed heartily, and so did I,--she looked so mischievous and
merry.
"But there are two other owls in the cage"--I said--"What are their
names?"
She held up a little finger in playful warning.
"Ah, that would be telling secrets!" she said--"They're all the
'Athenæum'--the holy Three,--a sort of literary Trinity. But why a
trinity I do not venture to explain!--it is a riddle I must leave you to
guess!"
She moved on, and we followed across a velvety grass-plot bordered with
bright spring-flowers, such as crocuses, tulips, anemones, and
hyacinths, and presently pausing she asked--"Would you care to see my
work-room?"
I found myself agreeing to this proposition with an almost boyish
enthusiasm. Lucio glanced at me with a slight half-cynical smile.
"Miss Clare, are you going to name a pigeon after Mr Tempest?" he
inquired--"He played the part of an adverse critic, you know--but I
doubt whether he will ever do so again!"
She looked round at me and smiled.
"Oh, I have been merciful to Mr Tempest,"--she replied; "He is among the
anonymous birds whom I do not specially recognise!"
She stepped into the arched embrasure of an open window which fronted
the view of the grass and flowers, and entering with her we found
ourselves in a large room, octagonal in shape, where the first object
that attracted and riveted the attention was a marble bust of the
Pallas Athene whose grave impassive countenance and tranquil brows
directly faced the sun. A desk strewn with papers occupied the left-hand
side of the window-nook,--in a corner draped with olive-green velvet,
the white presence of the Apollo Belvedere taught in his inscrutable yet
radiant smile, the lesson of love and the triumphs of fame,--and numbers
of books were about, not ranged in formal rows on shelves as if they
were never read, but placed on low tables and wheeled stands, that they
might be easily taken up and glanced at. The arrangement of the walls
chiefly excited my interest and admiration, for these were divided into
panels, and every panel had, inscribed upon it in letters of gold, some
phrase from the philosophers, or some verse from the poets. The passage
from Shelley which Mavis had recently quoted to us, occupied, as she had
said, one panel, and above it hung a beautiful bas-relief of the drowned
poet copied from the monument at Via Reggio. Another and broader panel
held a fine engraving of Shakespeare, and under the picture appeared the
lines--
"To thine own self be true,
And it must follow as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."
Byron was represented,--also Keats; but it would have taken more than a
day to examine the various suggestive quaintnesses and individual charms
of this 'workshop' as its owner called it, though the hour was to come
when I should know every corner of it by heart, and look upon it as a
haunted outlaw of bygone ages looked upon 'sanctuary.' But now time gave
us little pause,--and when we had sufficiently expressed our pleasure
and gratitude for the kindness with which we had been received, Lucio,
glancing at his watch, suggested departure.
"We could stay on here for an indefinite period Miss Clare,"--he said
with an unwonted softness in his dark eyes; "It is a place for peace and
happy meditation,--a restful corner for a tired soul." He checked a
slight sigh,--then went on--"But trains wait for no man, and we are
returning to town to-night."
"Then I will not detain you any longer," said our young hostess, leading
the way at once by a side-door, through a passage filled with flowering
plants, into the drawing-room where she had first entertained us--"I
hope, Mr Tempest," she added, smiling at me,--"that now we have met, you
will no longer desire to qualify as one of my pigeons! It is scarcely
worth while!"
"Miss Clare," I said, now speaking with unaffected sincerity--"I assure
you, on my honour, I am very sorry I wrote that article against you. If
I had only known you as you are--"
"Oh, that should make no difference to a critic!" she answered merrily.
"It would have made a great difference to me"--I declared; "You are so
unlike the objectionable 'literary woman,'--" I paused, and she regarded
me smilingly with her bright clear candid eyes,--then I added--"I must
tell you that Sibyl,--Lady Sibyl Elton--is one of your most ardent
admirers."
"I am very pleased to hear that,"--she said simply--"I am always glad
when I succeed in winning somebody's approval and liking."
"Does not everyone approve and admire you?" asked Lucio.
"Oh no! By no means! The 'Saturday' says I only win the applause of
shop-girls!" and she laughed--"Poor old 'Saturday'!--the writers on its
staff are so jealous of any successful author. I told the Prince of
Wales what it said the other day, and he was very much amused."
"You know the Prince?" I asked, in a little surprise.
"Well, it would be more correct to say that he knows me," she
replied--"He has been very amiable in taking some little interest in my
books. He knows a good deal about literature too,--much more than people
give him credit for. He has been here more than once,--and has seen me
feed my reviewers--the pigeons, you know! He rather enjoyed the fun I
think!"
And this was all the result of the 'slating' the press gave to Mavis
Clare! Simply that she named her doves after her critics, and fed them
in the presence of whatever royal or distinguished visitors she might
have (and I afterwards learned she had many) amid, no doubt, much
laughter from those who saw the 'Spectator'-pigeon fighting for grains
of corn, or the 'Saturday Review' pigeon quarrelling over peas!
Evidently no reviewer, spiteful or otherwise, could affect the vivacious
nature of such a mischievous elf as she was.
"How different you are--how widely different--to the ordinary run of
literary people!" I said involuntarily.
"I am glad you find me so,"--she answered--"I hope I _am_ different. As
a rule literary people take themselves far too seriously, and attach too
much importance to what they do. That is why they become such bores. I
don't believe anyone ever did thoroughly good work who was not perfectly
happy over it, and totally indifferent to opinion. I should be quite
content to write on, if I only had a garret to live in. I was once very
poor,--shockingly poor; and even now I am not rich, but I've got just
enough to keep me working steadily, which is as it should be. If I had
more, I might get lazy and neglect my work,--then you know Satan might
step into my life, and it would be a question of idle hands and mischief
to follow, according to the adage."
"I think you would have strength enough to resist Satan,--" said Lucio,
looking at her stedfastly, with sombre scrutiny in his expressive eyes.
"Oh, I don't know about that,--I could not be sure of myself!" and she
smiled--"I should imagine he must be a dangerously fascinating
personage. I never picture him as the possessor of hoofs and a
tail,--common-sense assures me that no creature presenting himself under
such an aspect would have the slightest power to attract. Milton's
conception of Satan is the finest"--and her eyes darkened swiftly with
the intensity of her thoughts--"A mighty Angel fallen!--one cannot but
be sorry for such a fall, if the legend were true!"
There was a sudden silence. A bird sang outside, and a little breeze
swayed the lilies in the window to and fro.
"Good-bye, Mavis Clare!" said Lucio very softly, almost tenderly. His
voice was low and tremulous--his face grave and pale. She looked up at
him in a little surprise.
"Good-bye!" she rejoined, extending her small hand. He held it a
moment,--then, to my secret astonishment, knowing his aversion to women,
stooped and kissed it. She flushed rosily as she withdrew it from his
clasp.
"Be always as you are Mavis Clare!"--he said gently--"Let nothing change
you! Keep that bright nature of yours,--that unruffled spirit of quiet
contentment, and you may wear the bitter laurel of fame as sweetly as a
rose! I have seen the world; I have travelled far, and have met many
famous men and women,--kings and queens, senators, poets and
philosophers,--my experience has been wide and varied, so that I am not
altogether without authority for what I say,--and I assure you that the
Satan of whom you are able to speak with compassion, can never trouble
the peace of a pure and contented soul. Like consorts with like,--a
fallen angel seeks the equally fallen,--and the devil,--if there be
one,--becomes the companion of those only who take pleasure in his
teaching and society. Legends say he is afraid of a crucifix,--but if he
is afraid of anything I should say it must be of that 'sweet content'
concerning which your country's Shakespeare sings, and which is a better
defence against evil than the church or the prayers of the clergy! I
speak as one having the right of age to speak,--I am so many many years
older than you!----you must forgive me if I have said too much!"
She was quite silent; evidently moved and surprised at his words; and
she gazed at him with a vaguely wondering, half-awed expression,--an
expression which changed directly I myself advanced to make my adieu.
"I am very glad to have met you, Miss Clare,"--I said--"I hope we shall
be friends!"
"There is no reason why we should be enemies I think," she responded
frankly--"I am very pleased you came to-day. If ever you want to 'slate'
me again, you know your fate!--you become a dove,--nothing more!
Good-bye!"
She saluted us prettily as we passed out, and when the gate had closed
behind us we heard the deep and joyous baying of the great dog
'Emperor,' evidently released from 'durance vile' immediately on our
departure. We walked on for some time in silence, and it was not till we
had re-entered the grounds of Willowsmere, and were making our way to
the drive where the carriage which was to take us to the station already
awaited us, that Lucio said--
"Well; now, what do you think of her?"
"She is as unlike the accepted ideal of the female novelist as she can
well be," I answered, with a laugh.
"Accepted ideals are generally mistaken ones,"--he observed, watching me
narrowly--"An accepted ideal of Divinity in some church pictures is an
old man's face set in a triangle. The accepted ideal of the devil is a
nondescript creature, with horns, hoofs (one of them cloven) and a tail,
as Miss Clare just now remarked. The accepted ideal of beauty is the
Venus de Medicis,--whereas your Lady Sibyl entirely transcends that much
over-rated statue. The accepted ideal of a poet is Apollo,--he was a
god,--and no poet in the flesh ever approaches the god-like! And the
accepted ideal of the female novelist, is an elderly, dowdy, spectacled,
frowsy fright,--Mavis Clare does not fulfil this description, yet she is
the author of 'Differences.' Now McWhing, who thrashes her continually
in all the papers he can command, _is_ elderly, ugly, spectacled and
frowsy,--and he is the author of--nothing! Women-authors are invariably
supposed to be hideous,--men-authors for the most part _are_ hideous.
But their hideousness is not noted or insisted upon,--whereas, no matter
how good-looking women-writers may be, they still pass under
press-comment as frights, because the fiat of press-opinion considers
they ought to be frights, even if they are not. A pretty authoress is an
offence,--an incongruity,--a something that neither men nor women care
about. Men don't care about her, because being clever and independent,
she does not often care about them,--women don't care about her, because
she has the effrontery to combine attractive looks with intelligence,
and she makes an awkward rival to those who have only attractive looks
without intelligence. So wags the world!--
O wild world!--circling through æons untold,--
'Mid fires of sunrise and sunset,--through flashes of silver and
gold,--
Grain of dust in a storm,--atom of sand by the sea,--
What is your worth, O world, to the Angels of God and me!
He sang this quite suddenly, his rich baritone pealing out musically on
the warm silent air. I listened entranced.
"What a voice you have!" I exclaimed--"What a glorious gift!"