“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 [p 225] 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.”
[p 226]
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.”