“Good-night!” I responded indifferently.
He left the room with his usual cat-like stealthy tread, and when he had gone, I,—moved by a sudden fresh impulse of hatred for him,—sprang to the door and locked it. Then I listened, with an odd nervous breathlessness. There was not a sound. For fully quarter of an hour I remained with my attention more or less strained, expectant of I knew not what; but the quiet of the house was absolutely undisturbed. With a sigh of relief I flung myself on the luxurious bed,—a couch fit for a king, draped with the richest satin elaborately embroidered,—and falling soundly asleep I dreamed that I was poor again. Poor,—but unspeakably happy,—and hard at work in the old lodging, writing down thoughts which I knew, by some divine intuition and beyond all doubt, would bring me the whole world’s honour. Again I heard the sounds of the violin played by my unseen neighbour next door, and this time they were triumphal chords and cadences of joy, without one throb of sorrow. And while I wrote on in an ecstasy of inspiration, oblivious of poverty and pain, I heard, echoing through my visions, the round warble of the nightingale, and saw, in the far distance, an angel floating towards me on pinions of light, with the face of Mavis Clare.
[p 260]
XXIII
The morning broke clear, with all the pure tints of a fine opal radiating in the cloudless sky. Never had I beheld such a fair scene as the woods and gardens of Willowsmere when I looked upon them that day illumined by the unclouded sunlight of a spring half-melting into summer. My heart swelled with pride as I surveyed the beautiful domain I now owned,—and thought how happy a home it would make when Sibyl, matchless in her loveliness, shared with me its charm and luxury.
“Yes,”—I said half-aloud—“Say what philosophers will, the possession of money does insure satisfaction and power. It is all very well to talk about fame, but what is fame worth, if, like Carlyle, one is too poor to enjoy it! Besides, literature no longer holds its former high prestige,—there are too many in the field,—too many newspaper-scribblers, all believing they are geniuses,—too many ill-educated lady-paragraphists and ‘new’ women, who think they are as gifted as Georges Sand or Mavis Clare. With Sibyl and Willowsmere, I ought to be able to resign the idea of fame—literary fame—with a good grace.”
I knew I reasoned falsely with myself,—I knew that my hankering for a place among the truly great of the world, was as strong as ever,—I knew I craved for the intellectual distinction, force, and pride which make the Thinker a terror and a power in the land, and which so sever a great poet or great romancist from the commoner throng that even kings are glad [p 261] to do him or her honour,—but I would not allow my thoughts to dwell on this rapidly vanishing point of unattainable desire. I settled my mind to enjoy the luscious flavour of the immediate present, as a bee settles in the cup of honey-flowers,—and, leaving my bedroom, I went downstairs to breakfast with Lucio in the best and gayest of humours.
“Not a cloud on the day!” he said, meeting me with a smile, as I entered the bright morning-room, whose windows opened on the lawn—“The fête will be a brilliant success, Geoffrey.”
“Thanks to you!” I answered—“Personally I am quite in the dark as to your plans,—but I believe you can do nothing that is not well done.”
“You honour me!” he said with a light laugh—“You credit me then with better qualities than the Creator! For what He does, in the opinion of the present generation, is exceedingly ill done! Men have taken to grumbling at Him instead of praising Him,—and few have any patience with or liking for His laws.”