arbours of foliage where all the most musical song-birds apparently found refuge and delight, and where at evening a perfect colony of nightingales kept up a bubbling fountain of delicious melody. I remember well the afternoon, warm, languid and still, when I took Sibyl to see the woman-author she had so long admired. The heat was so great that in our own grounds all the birds were silent, but when we approached Lily Cottage the first thing we heard was the piping of a thrush up somewhere among the roses,—a mellow liquid warble expressing ‘sweet content,’ and mingling with the subdued coo-cooings of the dove ‘reviewers’ who were commenting on whatever pleased or displeased them in the distance.
“What a pretty place it is!” said my wife, as she peeped over the gate, and through the odorous tangles of honeysuckle and jessamine—“I really think it is prettier than Willowsmere. It has been wonderfully improved.”
We were shown in,—and Mavis, who had expected our visit did not keep us waiting long. An she entered, clad in some gossamer white stuff that clung softly about her pretty figure and was belted in by a simple ribbon, an odd sickening pang went through my heart. The fair untroubled face,—the joyous yet dreamy student eyes,—the sensitive mouth, and above all, the radiant look of happiness that made the whole expression of her features so bright and fascinating, taught me in one flash of conviction all that a woman might be, and all that she too frequently is not. And I had hated Mavis [p 315] Clare!—I had even taken up my pen to deal her a wanton blow through the medium of anonymous criticism, ... but this was before I knew her,—before I realized that there could be any difference between her and the female scarecrows who so frequently pose as ‘novelists’ without being able to write correct English, and who talk in public of their ‘copy’ with the glibness gained from Grub Street and the journalists’ cheap restaurant. Yes—I had hated her,——and now——now, almost I loved her! Sibyl, tall, queenly and beautiful, gazed upon her with eyes that expressed astonishment as well as admiration.
“To think that you are the famous Mavis Clare!” she said, smiling, as she held out her hand—“I always heard and knew that you did not look at all literary, but I never quite realized that you could be exactly what I see you are!”
“To look literary does not always imply that you are literary!” returned Mavis, laughing a little—“Too often I am afraid you will find that the women who take pains to look literary are ignorant of literature! But how glad I am to see you, Lady Sibyl! Do you know I used to watch you playing about on the lawns at Willowsmere when I was quite a little girl?”
“And I used to watch you,”—responded Sibyl—“You used to make daisy-chains and cowslip-balls in the fields opposite on the other side of the Avon. It is a great pleasure to me to know we are neighbours. You must come and see me often at Willowsmere.”
Mavis did not answer immediately,—she busied herself in pouring out tea and dispensing it to both of us. Sibyl, who was always on the alert for glimpses of character, noticed that she did not answer, and repeated her words coaxingly.
“You will come, will you not? As often as you like,—the oftener the better. We must be friends, you know!”
Mavis looked up then, a frank sweet smile in her eyes.
“Do you really mean it?” she asked.