"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 'Sat.u.r.day' says I only win the applause of shop-girls!" and she laughed--"Poor old 'Sat.u.r.day'!--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 'Sat.u.r.day 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 a.s.sures 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 a.s.sure you that the Satan of whom you are able to speak with compa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d,--and no poet in the flesh ever approaches the G.o.d-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 pa.s.s under press-comment as frights, because the fiat of press-opinion considers they ought to be frights, even if they are not. A pretty auth.o.r.ess 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 aeons 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 G.o.d 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!"

He smiled, and sang on, his dark eyes flashing--

O wild world! Mote in a burning ray Flung from the spherical Heavens millions of s.p.a.ces away-- Sink in the ether or soar! Live with the planets or die!-- What should I care for your fate, who am one with the Infinite Sky!

"What strange song is that?" I asked, startled and thrilled by the pa.s.sion of his voice--"It seems to mean nothing!"

He laughed, and took my arm.

"It does mean nothing!" he said--"All drawing-room songs mean nothing.

Mine is a drawing-room song--calculated to waken emotional impulses in the unloved spinster religiously inclined!"

"Nonsense!" I said, smiling.

"Exactly! That is what I say. It _is_ nonsense!" Here we came up to the carriage which waited for us--"Just twenty minutes to catch the train, Geoffrey! Off we go!"

And off we did go,--I watching the red gabled roofs of Willowsmere Court shining in the late sunshine, till a turn in the road hid them from view.

"You like your purchase?" queried Lucio presently.

"I do. Immensely!"

"And your rival, Mavis Clare? Do you like her?"

I paused a moment, then answered frankly,

"Yes. I like her. And I will admit something more than that to you now.

I like her book. It is a n.o.ble work,--worthy of the most highly-gifted man. I always liked it--and because I liked it, I slated it."

"Rather a mysterious course of procedure!" and he smiled; "Can you not explain?"

"Of course I can explain,"--I said--"Explanation is easy. I envied her power--I envy it still. Her popularity caused me a smarting sense of injury, and to relieve it I wrote that article against her. But I shall never do anything of the kind again. I shall let her grow her laurels in peace."

"Laurels have a habit of growing without any permission,"--observed Lucio significantly--"In all sorts of unexpected places too. And they can never be properly cultivated in the forcing-house of criticism."

"I know that!" I said quickly, my thoughts reverting to my own book, and all the favourable criticisms that had been heaped upon it--"I have learned that lesson thoroughly, by heart!"

He looked at me fixedly.

"It is only one of many you may have yet to learn"--he said--"It is a lesson in fame. Your next course of instruction will be in love!"

He smiled,--but I was conscious of a certain dread and discomfort as he spoke. I thought of Sibyl and her incomparable beauty----Sibyl, who had told me she could not love,--had we both to learn a lesson? And should we master it?--or would it master us?