We concluded our wedding-tour rather sooner than we had at first
intended, and returned to England and Willowsmere Court, about the
middle of August. I had a vague notion stirring in me that gave me a
sort of dim indefinable consolation, and it was this,--I meant to bring
my wife and Mavis Clare together, believing that the gentle influence of
the gracious and happy creature, who, like a contented bird in its nest,
dwelt serene in the little domain so near my own, might have a softening
and wholesome effect upon Sibyl's pitiless love of analysis and scorn of
all noble ideals. The heat in Warwickshire was at this time
intense,--the roses were out in their full beauty, and the thick foliage
of the branching oaks and elms in my grounds afforded grateful shade and
repose to the tired body, while the tranquil loveliness of the woodland
and meadow scenery, comforted and soothed the equally tired mind. After
all, there is no country in the world so fair as England,--none so
richly endowed with verdant forests and fragrant flowers,--none that can
boast of sweeter nooks for seclusion and romance. In Italy, that land so
over-praised by hysterical _poseurs_ who foolishly deem it admirable to
glorify any country save their own, the fields are arid and brown, and
parched by the too fervent sun,--there are no shady lanes such as
England can boast of in all her shires,--and the mania among Italians
for ruthlessly cutting down their finest trees, has not only actually
injured the climate, but has so spoilt the landscape that it is
difficult to believe at all in its once renowned, and still erroneously
reported charm. Such a bower of beauty as Lily Cottage was in that
sultry August, could never have been discovered in all the length and
breadth of Italy. Mavis superintended the care of her gardens
herself,--she had two gardeners, who under her directions, kept the
grass and trees continually watered,--and nothing could be imagined more
lovely than the picturesque old-fashioned house, covered with roses and
tufts of jessamine that seemed to tie up the roof in festal knots and
garlands, while around the building spread long reaches of deep emerald
lawn, and bosky arbours of foliage where all the most musical song-birds
apparently found refuge and delight, and where at evening a perfect
colony of nightingales kept up a bubbling fountain of delicious melody.
I remember well the afternoon, warm, languid and still, when I took
Sibyl to see the woman-author she had so long admired. The heat was so
great that in our own grounds all the birds were silent, but when we
approached Lily Cottage the first thing we heard was the piping of a
thrush up somewhere among the roses,--a mellow liquid warble expressing
'sweet content,' and mingling with the subdued coo-cooings of the dove
'reviewers' who were commenting on whatever pleased or displeased them
in the distance.
"What a pretty place it is!" said my wife, as she peeped over the gate,
and through the odorous tangles of honeysuckle and jessamine--"I really
think it is prettier than Willowsmere. It has been wonderfully
improved."
We were shown in,--and Mavis, who had expected our visit did not keep us
waiting long. An she entered, clad in some gossamer white stuff that
clung softly about her pretty figure and was belted in by a simple
ribbon, an odd sickening pang went through my heart. The fair untroubled
face,--the joyous yet dreamy student eyes,--the sensitive mouth, and
above all, the radiant look of happiness that made the whole expression
of her features so bright and fascinating, taught me in one flash of
conviction all that a woman might be, and all that she too frequently is
not. And I had hated Mavis Clare!--I had even taken up my pen to deal
her a wanton blow through the medium of anonymous criticism, ... but
this was before I knew her,--before I realized that there could be any
difference between her and the female scarecrows who so frequently pose
as 'novelists' without being able to write correct English, and who talk
in public of their 'copy' with the glibness gained from Grub Street and
the journalists' cheap restaurant. Yes--I had hated her,----and
now----now, almost I loved her! Sibyl, tall, queenly and beautiful,
gazed upon her with eyes that expressed astonishment as well as
admiration.
"To think that you are the famous Mavis Clare!" she said, smiling, as
she held out her hand--"I always heard and knew that you did not look at
all literary, but I never quite realized that you could be exactly what
I see you are!"
"To look literary does not always imply that you _are_ literary!"
returned Mavis, laughing a little--"Too often I am afraid you will find
that the women who take pains to _look_ literary are ignorant of
literature! But how glad I am to see you, Lady Sibyl! Do you know I used
to watch you playing about on the lawns at Willowsmere when I was quite
a little girl?"
"And I used to watch you,"--responded Sibyl--"You used to make
daisy-chains and cowslip-balls in the fields opposite on the other side
of the Avon. It is a great pleasure to me to know we are neighbours. You
must come and see me often at Willowsmere."
Mavis did not answer immediately,--she busied herself in pouring out tea
and dispensing it to both of us. Sibyl, who was always on the alert for
glimpses of character, noticed that she did not answer, and repeated her
words coaxingly.
"You will come, will you not? As often as you like,--the oftener the
better. We must be friends, you know!"
Mavis looked up then, a frank sweet smile in her eyes.
"Do you really mean it?" she asked.
"Mean it!" echoed Sibyl--"Why, of course I do!"
"How can you doubt it!" I exclaimed.
"Well, you must both forgive me for asking such a question"--said Mavis
still smiling--"But you see you are now among what are called the
'county magnates,' and county magnates consider themselves infinitely
above all authors!" She laughed outright, and her blue eyes twinkled
with fun. "I think many of them estimate writers of books as some sort
of strange outgrowth of humanity that is barely decent. It is
deliciously funny and always amuses me,--nevertheless, among my many
faults, the biggest one is, I fancy, pride, and a dreadfully obstinate
spirit of independence. Now, to tell you the truth, I have been asked by
many so-called 'great' people to their houses, and when I _have_ gone, I
have generally been sorry for it afterwards."
"Why?" I asked--"They honour themselves by inviting you."
"Oh, I don't think they take it in that way at all!" she replied,
shaking her fair head demurely--"They fancy they have performed a great
act of condescension,--whereas it is really I who condescend, for it is
very good of me, you know, to leave the society of the Pallas Athene in
my study for that of a flounced and frizzled lady of fashion!" Her
bright smile again irradiated her face and she went on--"Once I was
asked to luncheon with a certain baron and baroness who invited a few
guests "to meet me," so they said. I was not introduced to more than one
or two of these people,--the rest sat and stared at me as if I were a
new kind of fish or fowl. Then the baron showed me his house, and told
me the prices of his pictures and his china,--he was even good enough to
explain which was Dresden and which was Delft ware, though I believe,
benighted author as I am, I could have instructed him equally on these,
and other matters. However I managed to smile amicably through the whole
programme, and professed myself charmed and delighted in the usual
way;--but they never asked me to visit them again,--and, (unless indeed
they wanted me to be impressed with their furniture-catalogue) I can
never make out what I did to be asked at all, and what I have done never
to be asked any more!"
"They must have been _parvenus_,"--said Sibyl indignantly--"No well-bred
people would have priced their goods to you, unless they happened to be
Jews."
Mavis laughed--a merry little laugh like a peal of bells,--then she
continued--
"Well, I will not say who they were,--I must keep something for my
'literary reminiscences' when I get old! Then all these people will be
named, and go down to posterity as Dante's enemies went down to Dante's
hell! I have only told you the incident just to show you why I asked you
if you meant it, when you invited me to visit you at Willowsmere.
Because the baron and baroness I have spoken of 'gushed' over me and my
poor books to such an extent that you would have fancied I was to be for
evermore one of their dearest friends,--and they _didn't_ mean it! Other
people I know embrace me effusively and invite me to their houses, and
_they_ don't mean it! And when I find out these shams, I like to make it
very clear on my own side that I do not seek to be embraced or invited,
and that if certain great folks deem it a 'favour' to ask me to their
houses, I do not so consider it, but rather think the 'favour' is
entirely on my part if I accept the invitation. And I do not say this
for my own self at all,--self has nothing to do with it,--but I do say
it and strongly assert it for the sake of the dignity of Literature as
an art and profession. If a few other authors would maintain this
position, we might raise the standard of letters by degrees to what it
was in the old days of Scott and Byron. I hope you do not think me too
proud?"
"On the contrary, I think you are quite right"--said Sibyl
earnestly--"And I admire you for your courage and independence. Some of
the aristocracy are, I know, such utter snobs that often I feel ashamed
to belong to them. But as far as we are concerned, I can only assure you
that if you will honour us by becoming our friend as well as neighbour,
you shall not regret it. Do try and like me if you can!"
She bent forward with a witching smile on her fair face. Mavis looked at
her seriously and admiringly.
"How beautiful you are!" she said frankly--"Everybody tells you this of
course,--still, I cannot help joining in the general chorus. To me, a
lovely face is like a lovely flower,--I must admire it. Beauty is quite
a divine thing, and though I am often told that the plain people are
always the good people, I never can quite believe it. Nature is surely
bound to give a beautiful face to a beautiful spirit."
Sibyl, who had smiled with pleasure at the first words of the open
compliment paid her by one of the most gifted of her own sex, now
flushed deeply.
"Not always, Miss Clare,"--she said, veiling her brilliant eyes beneath
the droop of her long lashes--"One can imagine a fair fiend as easily as
a fair angel."
"True!" and Mavis looked at her musingly,--then suddenly laughing in her
blithe bright way, she added--"Quite true! Really I cannot picture an
ugly fiend,--for the fiends are supposed to be immortal, and I am
convinced that immortal ugliness has no part in the universe. Downright
hideousness belongs to humanity alone,--and an ugly face is such a blot
on creation that we can only console ourselves by the reflection that it
is fortunately perishable, and that in course of time the soul behind it
will be released from its ill-formed husk, and will be allowed to wear a
fairer aspect. Yes, Lady Sibyl, I will come to Willowsmere; I cannot
refuse to look upon such loveliness as yours as often as I may!"
"You are a charming flatterer!" said Sibyl, rising and putting an arm
round her in that affectionate coaxing way of hers which seemed so
sincere, and which so frequently meant nothing--"But I confess I prefer
to be flattered by a woman rather than by a man. Men say the same things
to all women,--they have a very limited répertoire of compliments,--and
they will tell a fright she is beautiful, if it happens to serve their
immediate purpose. But women themselves can so hardly be persuaded to
admit that any good qualities exist either inwardly or outwardly in one
another, that when they do say a kind or generous thing of their own sex
it is a wonder worth remembering. May I your study?"
Mavis willingly assented,--and we all three went into the peaceful
sanctum where the marble Pallas presided, and where the dogs Tricksy and
Emperor were both ensconced,--Emperor sitting up on his haunches and
surveying the prospect from the window, and Tricksy with a most absurd
air of importance, imitating the larger animal's attitude precisely, at
a little distance off. Both creatures were friendly to my wife and to
me, and while Sibyl was stroking the St Bernard's massive head, Mavis
said suddenly,
"Where is the friend who came with you here first, Prince Rimânez?"
"He is in St Petersburg just now,"--I answered--"But we expect him in
two or three weeks to stay with us on a visit for some time."
"He is surely a very singular man,"--said Mavis thoughtfully--"Do you
remember how strangely my dogs behaved to him? Emperor was quite
restless and troublesome for two or three hours after he had gone."
And in a few words, she told Sibyl the incident of the St Bernard's
attack upon Lucio.
"Some people have a natural antipathy to dogs,"--said Sibyl, as she
heard--"And the dogs always find it out, and resent it. But I should not
have thought Prince Rimânez had an antipathy to any creatures
except--women!"
And she laughed, a trifle bitterly.
"Except women!" echoed Mavis surprisedly--"Does he hate women? He must
be a very good actor then,--for to me he was wonderfully kind and
gentle."
Sibyl looked at her intently, and was silent for a minute. Then she
said--
"Perhaps it is because he knows you are unlike the ordinary run of
women and have nothing in common with their usual trumpery aims. Of
course he is always courteous to our sex,--but I think it is easy to see
that his courtesy is often worn as a mere mask to cover a very different
feeling."
"You have perceived that, then, Sibyl?" I said with a slight smile.
"I should be blind if I had not perceived it"--she replied; "I do not
however blame him for his pet aversion,--I think it makes him all the
more attractive and interesting."
"He is a great friend of yours?" inquired Mavis, looking at me as she
put the question.
"The very greatest friend I have,"--I replied quickly--"I owe him more
than I can ever repay,--indeed I have to thank him even for introducing
me to my wife!"
I said the words unthinkingly and playfully, but as I uttered them, a
sudden shock affected my nerves,--a shock of painful memory. Yes, it was
true!--I owed to him, to Lucio, the misery, fear, degradation and shame
of having such a woman as Sibyl was, united to me till death should us
part. I felt myself turning sick and giddy,--and I sat down in one of
the quaint oak chairs that helped to furnish Mavis Clare's study,
allowing the two women to pass out of the open French window into the
sunlit garden together, the dogs following at their heels. I watched
them as they went,--my wife, tall and stately, attired in the newest and
most fashionable mode,--Mavis, small and slight, with her soft white
gown and floating waist-ribbon,--the one sensual, the other
spiritual,--the one base and vicious in desire,--the other pure-souled
and aspiring to noblest ends,--the one, a physically magnificent
animal,--the other merely sweet-faced and ideally fair like a sylph of
the woodlands,--and looking, I clenched my hands as I thought with
bitterness of spirit what a mistaken choice I had made. In the profound
egotism which had always been part of my nature I now actually allowed
myself to believe that I might, had I chosen, have wedded Mavis
Clare,--never for one moment imagining that all my wealth would have
been useless to me in such a quest, and that I might as well have
proposed to pluck a star from the sky as to win a woman who was able to
read my nature thoroughly, and who would never have come down to my
money-level from her intellectual throne,--no, not though I had been a
monarch of many nations. I stared at the large tranquil features of the
Pallas Athene,--and the blank eyeballs of the marble goddess appeared to
regard me in turn with impassive scorn. I glanced round the room,
and at the walls adorned with the wise sayings of poets and
philosophers,--sayings that reminded me of truths which I knew, yet
never accepted as practicable; and presently my eyes were attracted to a
corner near the writing-desk which I had not noticed before, where there
was a small dim lamp burning. Above this lamp an ivory crucifix gleamed
white against draperies of dark purple velvet,--below it, on a silver
bracket, was an hour-glass through which the sand was running in
glistening grains, and round the entire little shrine was written in
letters of gold "Now is the acceptable time!"--the word 'Now' being in
larger characters than the rest. 'Now' was evidently Mavis's motto,--to
lose no moment, but to work, to pray, to love, to hope, to thank God and
be glad for life, all in the 'Now'--and neither to regret the past nor
forebode the future, but simply do the best that could be done, and
leave all else in child-like confidence to the Divine Will. I got up
restlessly,--the sight of the crucifix curiously annoyed me;--and I
followed the path my wife and Mavis had taken through the garden. I
found them looking in at the cage of the 'Athenæum' owls,--the
owl-in-chief being as usual puffed out with his own importance, and
swelling visibly with indignation and excess of feather. Sibyl turned as
she saw me,--her face was bright and smiling.
"Miss Clare has very strong opinions of her own, Geoffrey," she
said--"She is not as much captivated by Prince Rimânez as most people
are,--in fact, she has just confided to me that she does not quite like
him."
Mavis blushed, but her eyes met mine with fearless candour.
"It is wrong to say what one thinks, I know,--" she murmured in somewhat
troubled accents--"And it is a dreadful fault of mine. Please forgive me
Mr Tempest! You tell me the prince is your greatest friend,--and I
assure you I was immensely impressed by his appearance when I first saw
him, ... but afterwards, ... after I had studied him a little, the
conviction was borne in upon me that he was not altogether what he
seemed."
"That is exactly what he says of himself,"--I answered, laughing a
little--"He has a mystery I believe,--and he has promised to clear it up
for me some day. But I'm sorry you don't like him, Miss Clare,--for he
likes you."
"Perhaps when I meet him again my ideas may be different"--said Mavis
gently--"at present, ... well,--do not let us talk of it any
more,--indeed I feel I have been very rude to express any opinion at all
concerning one for whom you and Lady Sibyl have so great a regard. But
somehow I seemed impelled, almost against my will, to say what I did
just now."
Her soft eyes looked pained and puzzled, and to relieve her and change
the subject, I asked if she was writing anything new.
"Oh yes,"--she replied--"It would never do for me to be idle. The public
are very kind to me,--and no sooner have they read one thing of mine
than they clamour for another, so I am kept very busy."
"And what of the critics?" I asked, with a good deal of curiosity.
She laughed.
"I never pay the least attention to them," she answered, "except when
they are hasty and misguided enough to write lies about me,--then I very
naturally take the liberty to contradict those lies, either through my
own statement or that of my lawyers. Apart from refusing to allow the
public to be led into a false notion of my work and aims, I have no
grudge whatever against the critics. They are generally very poor
hard-working men, and have a frightful struggle to live. I have often,
privately, done some of them a good turn without their knowledge. A
publisher of mine sent me an MS. the other day by one of my deadliest
enemies on the press, and stated that my opinion would decide its
rejection or acceptance,--I read it through, and though it was not very
brilliant work, it was good enough, so I praised it as warmly as I
could, and urged its publication, with the stipulation that the author
should never be told I had had the casting vote. It has just come out I
see,--and I'm sure I hope it will succeed." Here she paused to gather a
few deep damask roses, which she handed to Sibyl. "Yes,--critics are
very badly, even cruelly paid,"--she went on musingly--"It is not to be
expected that they should write eulogies of the successful author, while
they continue unsuccessful,--such work could not be anything but gall
and wormwood to them. I know the poor little wife of one of them,--and
settled her dressmaker's bill for her because she was afraid to show it
to her husband. The very week afterwards he slashed away at my last book
in the most approved style in the paper on which he is employed, and
got, I suppose, about a guinea for his trouble. Of course he didn't know
about his little wife and her dunning dressmaker; and he never will
know, because I have bound her over to secrecy."
"But why do you do such things?" asked Sibyl astonished; "I would have
let his wife get into the County Court for her bill, if I had been you!"
"Would you?" and Mavis smiled gravely--"Well, I could not. You know Who
it was that said 'Bless them that curse you, and do good to them that
hate you'? Besides, the poor little woman was frightened to death at her
own expenditure. It is pitiful, you know, to see the helpless agonies of
people who _will_ live beyond their incomes,--they suffer much more than
the beggars in the street who make frequently more than a pound a day by
merely whining and snivelling. The critics are much more in evil case
than the beggars--few of them make even a pound a day, and of course
they regard as their natural enemies the authors who make thirty to
fifty pounds a week. I assure you I am very sorry for critics all
round,--they are the least-regarded and worst-rewarded of all the
literary community. And I never bother myself at all about what they say
of me, except as I before observed, when in their haste they tell
lies,--then of course it becomes necessary for me to state the truth in
simple self-defence as well as by way of duty to my public. But as a
rule I hand over all my press-notices to Tricksy there,"--indicating the
minute Yorkshire terrier who followed closely at the edge of her white
gown,--"and he tears them to indistinguishable shreds in about three
minutes!"
She laughed merrily, and Sibyl smiled, watching her with the same wonder
and admiration that had been expressed in her looks more or less since
the beginning of our interview with this light-hearted possessor of
literary fame. We were now walking towards the gate, preparatory to
taking our departure.
"May I come and talk to you sometimes?" my wife said suddenly, in her
prettiest and most pleading voice--"It would be such a privilege!"
"You can come whenever you like in the afternoons,"--replied Mavis
readily--"The mornings belong to a goddess more dominant even than
Beauty;--Work!"
"You never work at night?" I asked.
"Indeed no! I never turn the ordinances of Nature upside down, as I am
sure I should get the worst of it if I made such an attempt. The night
is for sleep--and I use it thankfully for that blessed purpose."
"Some authors can only write at night though," I said.
"Then you may be sure they only produce blurred pictures and indistinct
characterization," said Mavis--"Some I know there are, who invite
inspiration through gin or opium, as well as through the midnight
influences, but I do not believe in such methods. Morning, and a freshly
rested brain are required for literary labour,--that is, if one wants
to write a book that will last for more than one 'season.'"
She accompanied us to the gate and stood under the porch, her big dog
beside her, and the roses waving high over her head.
"At any rate work agrees with you,"--said Sibyl fixing upon her a long,
intent, almost envious gaze--"You look perfectly happy."
"I _am_ perfectly happy,"--she answered, smiling--"I have nothing in all
the world to wish for, except that I may die as peacefully as I have
lived."
"May that day be far distant!" I said earnestly.
She raised her soft meditative eyes to mine.
"Thank you!" she responded gently--"But I do not mind when it comes, so
long as it finds me ready."
She waved her hand to us as we left her and turned the corner of the
lane,--and for some minutes we walked on slowly in absolute silence.
Then at last Sibyl spoke--
"I quite understand the hatred there is in some quarters for Mavis
Clare,"--she said--"I am afraid I begin to hate her myself!"