'The critics are willing to do anything for money. Miss Corelli has said herself that there is a vile conspiracy to blacken her, and for my part I am quite prepared to believe it. They're all afraid of her because she dares to show them up.'
'Besides, most of the critics are unsuccessful novelists,' added Mr. Dryland, 'and they are as envious as they can be.'
'It makes one boil with indignation,' cried Mary, 'to think that people can be so utterly base. Those who revile her are not worthy to unloose the latchet of her shoes.'
'It does one good to hear such whole-hearted admiration,' replied the curate, beaming. 'But you must remember that genius has always been persecuted. Look at Keats and Shelley. The critics abused them just as they abuse Marie Corelli. Even Shakespeare was slandered. But time has vindicated our immortal William; time will vindicate as brightly our gentle Marie.'
'I wonder how many of us here could get through Hamlet without yawning!' meditatively said the Vicar.
'I see your point!' cried Mr. Dryland, opening his eyes. 'While we could all read the 'Sorrows of Satan' without a break. I've read it three times, and each perusal leaves me more astounded. Miss Corelli has her revenge in her own hand; what can she care for the petty snarling of critics when the wreath of immortality is on her brow. I don't hesitate to say it, I'm not ashamed of my opinion; I consider Miss Corelli every bit as great as William Shakespeare. I've gone into the matter carefully, and if I may say so, I'm speaking of what I know something about. My deliberate opinion is that in wit, and humour, and language, she's every bit his equal.'
'Her language is beautiful,' said Mrs. Jackson. 'When I read her I feel just as if I were listening to hymns.'
'And where, I should like to know,' continued the curate, raising his voice, 'can you find in a play of Shakespeare's such a gallery of portraits as in the 'Master Christian'?'
'And there is one thing you must never forget,' said the Vicar, gravely, 'she has a deep, religious feeling which you will find in none of Shakespeare's plays. Every one of her books has a lofty moral purpose. That is the justification of fiction. The novelist has a high vocation, if he could only see it; he can inculcate submission to authority, hope, charity, obedience--in fact, all the higher virtues; he can become a handmaid of the Church. And now, when irreligion, and immorality, and scepticism are rampant, we must not despise the humblest instruments.'
'How true that is!' said Mrs. Jackson.
'If all novelists were like Marie Corelli, I should willingly hold them out my hand. I think every Christian ought to read 'Barabbas.' It gives an entirely new view of Christ. It puts the incidents of the Gospel in a way that one had never dreamed. I was never so impressed in my life.'
'But all her books are the same in that way!' cried Mary. 'They all make me feel so much better and nobler, and more truly Christian.'
'I think she's vulgar and blasphemous,' murmured Mrs. Clibborn quietly, as though she were making the simplest observation.
'Mamma!' cried Mary, deeply shocked; and among the others there was a little movement of indignation and disgust.
Mrs. Clibborn was continually mortifying her daughter by this kind of illiterate gaucherie. But the most painful part of it was that the good lady always remained perfectly unconscious of having said anything incredibly silly, and continued with perfect self-assurance:
'I've never been able to finish a book of hers. I began one about electricity, which I couldn't understand, and then I tried another. I forget what it was, but there was something in it about a bed of roses, and I thought it very improper. I don't think it was a nice book for Mary to read, but girls seem to read everything now.'
There was a pained hush, such as naturally occurs when someone has made a very horrible
'Of course, you know your Marie Corelli by heart, Captain Parsons?'
'I'm afraid I've never read one of them.'
'Not?' they all cried in surprise.
'Oh, I'll send them to you to Primpton House,' said Mr. Dryland. 'I have them all. Why, no one's education is complete till he's read Marie Corelli.'
This was considered a very good hit at Mrs. Clibborn, and the dear people smiled at one another significantly. Even Mary could scarcely keep a straight face.
The tea then appeared, and was taken more or less silently. With the exception of the fashionable Mrs. Clibborn, they were all more used to making a sit-down meal of it, and the care of holding a cup, with a piece of cake unsteadily balanced in the saucer, prevented them from indulging in very brilliant conversational feats; they found one gymnastic exercise quite sufficient at a time. But when the tea-cups were safely restored to the table, Mrs. Jackson suggested a little music.
'Will you open the proceedings, Mary?'
The curate went up to Miss Clibborn with a bow, gallantly offering his arm to escort her to the piano. Mary had thoughtfully brought her music, and began to play a 'Song Without Words,' by Mendelssohn. She was considered a fine pianist in Little Primpton. She attacked the notes with marked resolution, keeping the loud pedal down throughout; her eyes were fixed on the music with an intense, determined air, in which you saw an eagerness to perform a social duty, and her lips moved as conscientiously she counted time. Mary played the whole piece without making a single mistake, and at the end was much applauded.
'There's nothing like classical music, is there?' cried the curate enthusiastically, as Mary stopped, rather out of breath, for she played, as she did everything else, with energy and thoroughness.
'It's the only music I really love.'
'And those 'Songs Without Words' are beautiful,' said Colonel Parsons, who was standing on Mary's other side.
