His brows knitted, — his face expressed pride, scorn and sorrow.
“There is some mystery about you Lucio;” — I said— “Some grief or loss that your wealth cannot repair — and that makes you the strange being you are. One day perhaps you will confide in me ...”
He laughed loudly, — almost fiercely; — and clapped me heavily on the shoulder.
“I will!” he said— “I will tell you my history! And you, excellent agnostic as you are, shall ‘minister to a mind diseased,’ and ‘pluck out the memory of a rooted sorrow!’ What a power of expression there was in Shakespeare, the uncrowned but actual King of England! Not the ‘rooted sorrow’ alone was to be ‘plucked out’ but the very ‘memory’ of it. The apparently simple line holds complex wisdom; no doubt the poet knew, or instinctively guessed the most terrible fact in all the Universe ...”
“And what is that?”
“The eternal consciousness of Memory—” he replied— “God can not forget, — and in consequence of this, His creatures may not!”
I forbore to reply, but I suppose my face betrayed my thoughts, for the cynical smile I knew so well played round his mouth as he looked at me.
“I go beyond your patience, do I not!” he said, laughing again— “When I mention God, — who is declared by certain scientists to be non-existent except as a blind, indifferent natural Force or Atom-producer; — you are bored! I can see that at a glance. Pray forgive me! Let us resume our tour of inspection through this charming abode. You will be very difficult to satisfy if you are not a very emperor of contentment here; — with a beautiful wife and plenty of cash, you can well afford to give fame the go-by.”
“I may win it yet!” I said hopefully— “In this place, I feel I could write something worthy of being written.”
“Good! The ‘divine flutterings’ of winged thoughts are in your brain! Apollo grant them strength to fly! And now let us have luncheon, — afterwards we shall have time to take a stroll.”
In the dining-room I found an elegant repast prepared, which rather surprised me, as I had given no orders, having indeed forgotten to do so. Lucio however had, it appeared, not forgotten, and an advance telegram from him had placed certain caterers at Leamington on their mettle, with the result that we sat down to a feast as delicate and luxurious as any two epicures could desire.
“Now I want you to do me a favour, Geoffrey,” — said Lucio, during our luncheon— “You will scarcely need to reside here till after your marriage; you have too many engagements in town. You spoke of entertaining a big house-party down here, — I wouldn’t do that if I were you, — it isn’t worth while. You would have to get in a staff of servants, and leave them all afterwards to their own devices while you are on your honeymoon. This is what I propose, — give a grand fête here in honour of your betrothal to Lady Sibyl, in May — and let me be the master of the revels!”
I was in the mood to agree to anything, — moreover the idea seemed an excellent one. I said so and Rimânez went on quickly —
“You understand of course, that if I undertake to do a thing I always do it thoroughly, and brook no interference with my plans. Now as your marriage will be the signal for our parting, — at any rate for a time, — I should like to show my appreciation of your friendship, by organizing a brilliant affair of the kind I suggest, — and if you will leave it all to me, I guarantee you shall hold such a fête as has never been seen or known in England. And it will be a personal satisfaction to me if you consent to my proposal.”
218”My dear fellow—” I answered— “Of course I consent — willingly! I give you carte blanche, — do as you like; do all you like! It is most friendly and kind of you! But when are we to make this sensation?”
“You are to be married in June?” he asked.
“Yes, — in the second week of the month.”
“Very well. The fête shall be held on the twenty-second of May, — that will give society time to recover from the effect of one burst of splendour in order to be ready for another, — namely the wedding. Now we need not talk of this any more — it is settled, — the rest devolves on me. We’ve got three or four hours to spare before we take the train back to town, — suppose we take a saunter through the grounds?”
I assented to this, and accompanied him readily, feeling in high spirits and good humour. Willowsmere and its peaceful loveliness seemed to cleanse my mind of all corroding influences; — the blessed silence of the woods and hills, after the rush and roar of town life, soothed and cheered me, and I walked beside my companion with a light heart and smiling face, — happy, and filled with a dim religious faith in the blue sky, if not in the God beyond it. We sauntered through the fair gardens which were now mine, and then out through the park into a lovely little lane, — a true Warwickshire lane, where the celandines were strewing the grass with their bright gold coinage, and the star-wort thrust up fairy bouquets of white bloom between buttercups and lover, and where the hawthorn-buds were beginning to show themselves like minute snow-pellets among the glossy young green. A thrush warbled melodiously, — a lark rose from almost our very feet and flung itself joyously into the sky with a wild outburst of song, — a robin hopped through a little hole in the hedge to look at us in blithe inquisitiveness as we passed. All at once Lucio stopped and laid his hand on my shoulder, — his eyes had the beautiful melancholy of a far-off longing which I could neither understand nor define.
“Listen, Geoffrey!” he said— “Listen to the silence of the earth while the lark sings! Have you ever observed the receptive attitude in which Nature seems to wait for sounds divine!”
I did not answer, — the silence around us was indeed impressive; — the warbling of the thrush had ceased, and only the lark’s clear voice pealing over-head, echoed sweetly through the stillness of the lane.
“In the clerical Heaven,” went on Lucio dreamily— “there are no birds. There are only conceited human souls braying forth ‘Alleluia’! No flowers are included, — no trees; only ‘golden streets.’ What a poor and barbarous conception! As if a World inhabited by Deity would not contain the wonders, graces and beauties of all worlds! Even this little planet is more naturally beautiful than the clerical Heaven, — that is, it is beautiful wherever Man is not. I protest — I have always protested, — against the creation of Man!”
I laughed.
“You protest against your own existence then!” I said.
His eyes darkened slowly to a sombre brooding blackness.
“When the sea roars and flings itself in anger on the shore, it craves its prey — Mankind! — it seeks to wash the fair earth clean of the puny insect that troubles the planet’s peace! It drowns the noxious creature when it can, with the aid of its sympathizing comrade the wind! When the thunder crashes down a second after the lightning, does it not seem to you that the very clouds combine in the holy war? The war against God’s one mistake; — the making of humanity, — the effort to sweep it out of the universe as one erases a weak expression in an otherwise perfect Poem! You and I, for example, are the only discords in to-day’s woodland harmony. We are not particularly grateful for life, — we certainly are not content with it, — we have not the innocence of a bird or a flower. We have more knowledge you will say, — but how can we be sure of that? Our wisdom came from the devil in the first place, according to the legend of the tree of knowledge, — the fruit of which taught both good and evil, but which still apparently persuades man to evil rather than good, and leads him on to a considerable amount of arrogance besides, for he has an idea he will be immortal as a god in the hereafter, — ye majestic Heavens! — what an inadequately stupendous fate for a grain of worthless dust, — a dwarfish atom such as he!”
“Well, I have no ideas of immortality” — I said— “I have told you that often. This life is enough for me, — I want and expect no other.”
“Aye, but if there were another!” answered Lucio, fixing me with a steady look— “And — if you were not asked your opinion
about it — but simply plunged headlong into a state of terrible consciousness in which you would rather not be — —”
“Oh come,” I said impatiently— “do not let us theorise! I am happy to-day! — my heart is as light as that of the bird singing in the sky; I am in the very best of humours, and could not say an unkind word to my worst enemy.”
He smiled.
“Is that your humour?” and he took me by the arm— “Then there could be no better opportunity for showing you this pretty little corner of the world;” — and walking on a few yards, he dexterously turned me down a narrow path, leading from the lane, and brought me face to face with a lovely old cottage, almost buried in the green of the young spring verdure, and surrounded by an open fence overgrown with hawthorn and sweet-briar,— “Keep firm hold over your temper Geoffrey, — and maintain the benignant tranquillity of your mind! — here dwells the woman whose name and fame you hate, — Mavis Clare!”
XIX
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.”
222”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?”
224”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 Wa
les, — 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.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 346
