“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 [p 239] 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.