Though the weather is snowy and drearyAnd a shiver careers down my spine,Yet the heart in my bosom is cheery,For I feel I've exchanged mine for thine.Do not call it delusion, my dearie,But become my own loved Valentine.For that { stormy June day you } remember,{ New Year's dance you must }When we { sheltered together from rain,{ waltzed to a languorous strain,While the sky, like the Fifth of November, }And our souls glowed despite 'twas December }Gleamed with lightening outrivalling P { ain. }With a burning but glorious p { ain.}Ah me! In my fire's dying emberI can see that { dank Devonshire lane.{ bright ball-room again.And } I spoke { of the love that I } bore you,Yet } { not then, fearing to }And of how for a widow I } yearned,Though for maidenly love my heart }Not a schoolgirl { and fealty I swore you,{ I'd gazed on before you,And you listened till sunshine re- } turned,Had my heart with such sweet madness }Then { you } parted { from me who } adore you,{ we } { but still I }And my heart and umbrella you spurned. }Though you may not my love have discerned, }Not repelled by { hoarded-up } money,{ having no }I adore you, my { Belle, } for yourself,{ Nell, }You are sweeter than music or honey;And Dan Cupid's a sensuous elf,Who is drawn to the fair and the sunny,And is blind unto nothing but pelf.Need we feel a less genuine passionBecause we { shall } live in May-fair?{ can't }Love { blooms rich } in the hothouse of fashion,{ oft fades }'Tis { an orchid that flourishes there;{ a moss-rose that needs the fresh air;Yet I would not my own darling lass shunWere she even as { poor } as she's { fair.{ rich } { rare.There are fools who adore a complexionThat's like strawberries mingled with cream. }As with Nubian blacking a gleam }A brunette } is my own predilection,But a blonde }And the glances from { dark } eyes that beam{ blue }Then refuse not my deathless affection,Neither shatter my amorous dream.You're the very first { woman } who's thrilled me{ maiden }With the passion that tongue cannot tell.Of none else have I thought since you filled meWith { despair in that Devonshire dell. }{ unrest when the waltz wove its spell. }When your final refusal has killed me.On my heart will be found graven { Belle.{ Nell.
Though the weather is snowy and drearyAnd a shiver careers down my spine,Yet the heart in my bosom is cheery,For I feel I've exchanged mine for thine.Do not call it delusion, my dearie,But become my own loved Valentine.
For that { stormy June day you } remember,{ New Year's dance you must }When we { sheltered together from rain,{ waltzed to a languorous strain,While the sky, like the Fifth of November, }And our souls glowed despite 'twas December }Gleamed with lightening outrivalling P { ain. }With a burning but glorious p { ain.}Ah me! In my fire's dying emberI can see that { dank Devonshire lane.{ bright ball-room again.
And } I spoke { of the love that I } bore you,Yet } { not then, fearing to }And of how for a widow I } yearned,Though for maidenly love my heart }Not a schoolgirl { and fealty I swore you,{ I'd gazed on before you,And you listened till sunshine re- } turned,Had my heart with such sweet madness }Then { you } parted { from me who } adore you,{ we } { but still I }And my heart and umbrella you spurned. }Though you may not my love have discerned, }Not repelled by { hoarded-up } money,{ having no }I adore you, my { Belle, } for yourself,{ Nell, }You are sweeter than music or honey;And Dan Cupid's a sensuous elf,Who is drawn to the fair and the sunny,And is blind unto nothing but pelf.
Need we feel a less genuine passionBecause we { shall } live in May-fair?{ can't }Love { blooms rich } in the hothouse of fashion,{ oft fades }'Tis { an orchid that flourishes there;{ a moss-rose that needs the fresh air;Yet I would not my own darling lass shunWere she even as { poor } as she's { fair.{ rich } { rare.
There are fools who adore a complexionThat's like strawberries mingled with cream. }As with Nubian blacking a gleam }A brunette } is my own predilection,But a blonde }And the glances from { dark } eyes that beam{ blue }Then refuse not my deathless affection,Neither shatter my amorous dream.
You're the very first { woman } who's thrilled me{ maiden }With the passion that tongue cannot tell.Of none else have I thought since you filled meWith { despair in that Devonshire dell. }{ unrest when the waltz wove its spell. }When your final refusal has killed me.On my heart will be found graven { Belle.{ Nell.
"How strange!" said Lillie. "You combine the disqualificationsof two of the previous candidates. You are apparently poor and you have received only half a proposal."
A flaming blonde, whose brow was crowned with an aurora of auburn hair, was the next to burst upon the epigrammatic scene. She spoke English with an excellent Parisian accent. "One has called me a young woman in a hurry," she said, "and the description does not want of truth. I am impatient; I have large ideas; I am ambitious. If I were a grocer I should contract for the Sahara. I fall in love, and when Alice Leroux falls in love it is like the volcano which goes to make eruption. Figure to yourself that my man is shy—but of a shyness of the most ridiculous—that it is necessary to make a thousand sweet eyes at him before he comprehends that he loves me. And when he comprehends it, he does not speak.Mon Dieu, he does not speak, though I speak, me, with fan, my eyes, my fingers, almost with my lips. He walks with me—but he does not speak. He takes me to the spectacle—but he does not speak. He promenades himself in boat with me—but he does not speak. I encircle him with my arms, and I speak with my lips at last—one, two, three, four, five, kisses. Overwhelmed, astonished, he returns me my kisses—hesitatingly, stupidly, but in fine, he returns them And then at last—with our faces together, my arm round his graceful waist—he speaks. The first words of love comes from his mouth—and what think you that he say? Say then."
I encircle him with my arms and speak with my lips.
I encircle him with my arms and speak with my lips.
I encircle him with my arms and speak with my lips.
"I love you?" murmured Lillie.
"A thousand thunders! No! He says: 'Miss Leroux—Alice; may I call you Alice?'"
"I see nothing to wonder at in that," replied Lillie quietly. "Remember that for a man to kiss you is a less serious step than for him to call you Alice. That were astage on the road to marriage, and should only be reached through the gate of betrothal. Changes of name are the outward marks of a woman's development as much as changes of form accompany the growth of the caterpillar. You, for instance, began life as Alice. In due course you became Miss Alice; if you were the eldest daughter you became Miss Leroux at once; if you were not, you inherited the name only on your sister's death or marriage; when you are betrothed you will revert to the simple Alice, and when you are married you will become Mrs. Something Else; and every time you get married, if you are careful to select husbands of varying patronymics, you will be furnished with a change of name as well as of address. Providence, which has conferred so many sufferings upon woman, has given her this one advantage over man, who in the majority of instance is doomed to the monotony of ossified nomenclature, and has to wear the same name on his tombstone which he wore on his Eton collar."
"That is all a heap of galimatias," replied the Parisienne with the flaming hair "If I kiss a man, I, surely he may call me Alice without demanding it? Bah! Let him love your misses witheau sucréein their veins. When he insulted me with his stupidity, I became furious. I threw him—how you say?—overboard on the instant."
"Good heavens!" gasped Lillie. "Then you are a murderess!"
"Figure you to yourself that I speak at the foot of the letter? Know you not the idioms of your own barbarian tongue? It seems to me you are as mad as he. Perhaps you are his sister."
"Certainly. Our rules require us to regard all men as brothers."
"He!What?"
"We have rejected the love of all men; consequently we have to regard them all as our brothers."
"That man there my brother!" shrieked Alice. "Never! Never of my life! I would rather marry first!" And she went off to do so.
The last of these competitors for the Old Maiden Stakes was a whirlwind in petticoats who welcomed the President very affably. "Good-morning, Miss Dulcimer," she said. "I've heard of you. I'm from Boston way. You know I travel about the world in search of culture. I'm spending the day in Europe, so I thought I'd look you up. Would you be so good as to epitomize your scheme in twenty words? I've got to see the Madonna del Cardellino in the Uffizi at Florence before ten to-morrow, and I want to hear an act of theMeistersingersat Bayreuth after tea."
"I'm rather tired," pleaded Lillie, overwhelmed by the dynamic energy radiating from every square inch of the Bostonian's superficies. "I have had a hard morning's work. Couldn't you call again to-morrow?"
"Impossible. I have just wired to Damietta to secure rooms commanding a view of Professor Tickledroppe's excavations on the banks of the Nile. I dote on archæological treasures and thought I should like to see the Old Maids. Are they on view?"
"No, they are not here," said Lillie evasively. "But do you want to join us?"
"Shall I have time? I remember I once wasted a week getting married. Some women waste their whole lives that way. Marriage is an incident of life's novel—they make it the whole plot. I don't say it isn't an interesting experience. Every woman ought to go through it once, but with the infinite possibilities of culture lying all round us it's mere Philistinism to give one husbandman more than a week of your society. Mine is a physicianpractising in Philadelphia. Judging by the checks he sends me he must be a successful man. Well, I am real glad to have had this little talk with you, it's been so interesting. I will become an Honorary Member of your charming Club with pleasure."
"You cannot if you are married. You can only be a visitor."
"What's my being married got to do with it?" inquired the American in astonishment. "This is the first time I have ever heard that the name of a club has anything to do with the membership. Are the members of the Savage Club savages, of the Garrick Garricks, of the Supper Club suppers?"
"We are not men," Lillie said haughtily. "I could pass over your relation to the hub of the universe, but when it comes to having a private hub I have no option."
"Well, this may be your English idea of hospitality to travellers of culture," replied the Bostonian warmly, "but if you come to our crack Crank Club in the fall you shall be as welcome as a brand new poet. Good-bye. Hope we shall meet again. I shall be in Hong Kong in June if you like to drop in. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," said Lillie, pressing one hand against the visitor's and the other to her aching forehead.
Silverdale found her dissolved in tears. "In future," he said, when she had explained her troubles, "I shall hang the rules and by-laws in the waiting room. The candidates will then be able to eliminate themselves. By the way, Ellaline Rand'sCherubis going to sit up aloft,—on a third floor in Fleet Street."
A MUSICAL BAR.
When Turple the magnificent, looking uneasy, brought up Frank Maddox's card, Lillie uttered a cry of surprise and pleasure. Frank Maddox was a magic name to her as to all the elect of the world of sweetness and light. After a moment of nervous anxiety lest it should not betheFrank Maddox, her fears were dispelled by the entry of the great authority on art and music, whose face was familiar to her from frontispiece portraits. Few critics possessed such charms of style and feature as Frank Maddox, who had a deliciousretroussénose, a dainty rosebud mouth, blue eyes, and a wealth of golden hair.
Lillie's best hopes were confirmed. The famous critic wished to become an Old Maid. The President and the new and promising candidate had a delightful chat over a cup of tea and the prospects of the Club. The two girls speedily became friends.
"But if you join us, hadn't you better go back to your maiden name?" inquired Lillie.
"Perhaps so," said Frank Maddox thoughtfully. "My pen-name does sound odd under the peculiar circumstances. On the other hand to revert to Laura Spragg now might be indiscreet. People would couple my name with Frank Maddox's—you know the way of the world. The gossips get their facts so distorted, and I couldn't even deny the connection."
"But of course youhavehad your romance?" asked Lillie. "You know one romance per head is our charge for admission?"
"Oh, yes! I have had my romance. In three vols. Shall I tell it you?"
"If you please."
"Listen, then. Volume the First: Frank Maddox is in her study. Outside the sun is setting in furrows of gold-laced sagging storm-clouds, dun and——"
"Oh, please, I always skip that," laughed Lillie. "I know that two lovers cannot walk in a lane without the author seeing the sunset, which is the last thing in the world the lovers see. But when the sky begins to look black, I always begin to skip."
"Forgive me. I didn't mean to do it. Remember I'm an habitual art-critic. I thought I was describing a harmony of Whistler's or a movement from a sonata. It shall not occur again. To the heroine enter the hero—shabby, close-cropped, pale. Their eyes meet. He is thunderstruck to find the heroine a woman; blushes, stammers, and offers to go away. Struck by something of innate refinement in his manner, she presses him to avow the object of his visit. At last, in dignified language, infinitely touching in its reticence, he confesses he called on Mr. Frank Maddox, the writer he admires so much, to ask a little pecuniary help. He is starving. Original, isn't it, to have your hero hungry in the first chapter? He speaks vaguely of having ambitions which, unless he goes under in the struggle for existence may some day be realized. There are so many men in London like that. However, the heroine is moved by his destitute condition and sitting down to her desk, she writes out a note, folds it up and gives it to him. 'There!' she says, 'there's a prescription against starvation.' 'But how am I to take it?' he asked. 'It must be taken before breakfast,the first thing in the morning,' she replied, 'to the editor of theMoon. Give him the note; he will change it for you. Don't mention my name.'
"There's a prescription against starvation."
"There's a prescription against starvation."
"There's a prescription against starvation."
"He thanked me and withdrew."
"And what was in the note?" asked Lillie curiously.
"I can't quite remember. But something of this sort. 'The numerous admirers of Frank Maddox will be gratified to hear that she has in the press a volume of essays on the part played by color-blindness in the symphonic movements of the time. The great critic is still in town but leaves for Torquay next Tuesday.' For that the editor of theMoongave him half-a-crown."
"Do you call that charity?" said Lillie, astonished.
"Certainly. Charity begins at home. Do many people give charity except to advertise themselves? Philanthropy by paragraph is a perquisite of fame. Why, I have a pensioner who comes in for all myAcadæumparagraphs. ThatMoonpart saved our hero from starvation. Years afterwards I learnt he had frittered away two-pence in having his hair cut."
"It seems strange for a starving man to get his hair cut," said Lillie.
"Not when you know the cause," replied Frank Maddox. "It was his way of disguising himself. And this brings me to Volume Two. The years pass. Once again I am in my study. There is a breath of wind among the elms in the front garden, and the sky is strewn with vaporous sprays of apple-blossom——I beg your pardon. Re-enter the hero, spruce, frock-coated, dignified. He recalls himself to my memory—but I remember him only too well. He tells me that my half-crown saved him at the turning-point of his career, that he has now achieved fame and gold, that he loves my writing more passionately than ever, and that he has come to ask me to crown his life. The whole thing is so romantic that I am about towhisper 'yes' when an instinct of common sense comes to my aid and my half-opened lips murmur instead: 'But the name you sent up—Horace Paul—it is not known to me. You say you have won fame. I, at least, have never heard of you.'
"'Of course not,' he replies. 'How should you? If I were Horace Paul you would not marry me; just as I should certainly not marry you if you were Frank Maddox. But what of Paul Horace?'"
"Paul Horace," cried Lillie. "The great composer!"
"That is just what I exclaimed. And my hero answers: 'The composer, great or little. None but a few intimates connect me with him. The change of name is too simple. I always had a longing—call it morbid if you will—for obscurity in the midst of renown. I have weekly harvests of hair to escape any suspicion of musical attainments. But you and I, dearest—think of what our life will be enriched by our common love of the noblest of the arts. Outside, the marigolds nod to the violets, the sapphire—excuse me, I mean to say——' thus he rambled on, growing in enthusiasm with every ardent phrase, the while a deadly coldness was fastening round my heart. For I felt that it could not be."
"And why?" inquired Lillie in astonishment. "It seems one of the marriages made in heaven."
"I dared not tell him why; and I can only tell you on condition you promise to keep my secret."
"I promise."
"Listen," whispered the great critic. "I know nothing about music or art, and I was afraid he would find me out."
Lillie fell back in her chair, white and trembling. Another idol shivered! "But how——?" she gasped.
"There, then, don't take on so," said the great critic kindly. "I did not think you, too, were such an admirer ofmine, else I might have spared you the shock. You ask how it is done. Well, I didn't set out to criticise. I can at least plead that in extenuation. My nature is not wilfully perverse. There was a time when I was as pure and above criticism as yourself." She paused and furtively wiped away a tear, then resumed more calmly, "I drifted into it. For years I toiled on, without ever a thought of musical and art criticism sullying my maiden meditations. My downfall was gradual. In early maidenhood I earnt my living as a type-writer. I had always had literary yearnings, but the hard facts of life allowed me only this rough approximation to my ideal. Accident brought excellent literature to my machine, and it required all my native honesty not to steal the plots of the novelists and the good things of the playwrights. The latter was the harder temptation to resist, for when the play was good enough to be worth stealing from, I knew it would never be produced and my crime never discovered. Still in spite of my honesty, I benefited indirectly by my type-writing, for contact with so much admirable work fostered the graceful literary style which, between you and me, is my only merit. In time I plucked up courage to ask one of my clients, a journalist, if he could put some newspaper work in my way. 'What can you do?' he asked in surprise. 'Anything,' I replied with maiden modesty. 'I see, that's your special line,' he said musingly. 'Unfortunately we are full up in that department. You see, everyone turns his hand to that—it's like schoolmastering, the first thing people think of. It's a pity you are a girl, because the way to journalistic distinction lies through the position of office-boy. Office-girl sounds strange. I doubt whether they would have you except on a Freethought organ. Our office-boy has to sweep out the office and review the novels, else you might commence humbly as a critic of literature. It isn't a bad post either,for he supplements his income by picking rejected matter out of the waste paper basket and surreptitiously lodging it in the printer's copy pigeonhole. His income in fees from journalistic aspirants must be considerable. Yes, had you been a boy you might have made a pretty good thing out of literature! Then there is no chance at all for me on your paper?' I inquired desperately. 'None,' he said sadly. 'Our editor is an awful old fogey. He is vehemently opposed to the work of outsiders, and if you were to send him his own leaders in envelopes he would say they were rot. For once he would be a just critic. You see, therefore, what your own chance is. Even I, who have been on the staff for years, couldn't do anything to help you. No, I am afraid there is no hope for you unless you approach our office-boy.' I thanked him warmly for his advice and encouragement, and within a fortnight an article of mine appeared in the paper. It was called 'The Manuscripts of Authors,' and revealed in a refined and ladylike way the secrets of the chirographic characteristics of the manuscripts I had to type-write. My friend said I was exceedingly practical——"
"Exceedingly practical," agreed Lillie with a suspicion of a sneer.
"Because most amateur journalists write about abstract principles, whereas I had sliced out for the public a bit of concrete fact, and the great heart of the people went out to hear the details of the way Brown wrote his books, Jones his jokes, and Robinson his recitations. The article made a hit, and annoyed the authors very much."
"So, I should think," said Lillie. "Didn't they withdraw their custom from you instanter?"
The office boy edits the paper.
The office boy edits the paper.
The office boy edits the paper.
"Why? They didn't know it was I. Only my journalistic friend knew; and he was too much of a gentleman to give away my secret. I wrote to the editor under the name of Frank Maddox, thanking him for having insertedmy article, and the editor said to my friend, 'Egad, I fancy I've made a discovery there. Why, if I were to pay any attention to your idea of keeping strictly to the old grooves, the paper would stagnate, my boy, simply stagnate.' The editor was right, for my friend assured me the paper would have died long before, if the office-boy had not condescended to edit it. Anyhow, it was to that office-boy I owed my introduction to literature. The editor was very proud of having discovered me, and, being installed in his good graces, I passed rapidly into dramatic criticism, and was even allowed to understudy the office-boy as literary reviewer. He could not stomach historical novels, and handed over to me all works with pronouns in the second person. Gradually I rose to higher things, but it was not until I had been musical and art critic for over eighteen months that the editor learnt that the writer whose virile style he had often dilated upon to my friend was a woman."
"And what did he do when he learnt it?" asked Lillie.
"He swore——"
"Profane man!" cried Lillie.
"That he loved me—me whom he had never seen. Of course, I declined him with thanks; happily there was a valid excuse, because he had written his communication on both sides of the paper. But even this technical touch did not mollify him, and he replied that my failure to appreciate him showed I could no longer be trusted as a critic. Fortunately my work had been signed, my fame was established. I collected my articles into a book and joined another paper."
"But you haven't yet told me how it is done?"
"Oh, that is the least. You see, to be a critic it is not essential to know anything—you must simply be able to write. To be a great critic you must simply be able to writewell. In my omniscience, or catholic ignorance, I naturallylooked about for the subject on which I could most profitably employ my gift of style with the least chance of being found out. A moment's consideration will convince you that the most difficult branches of criticism are the easiest. Of musical and artistic matters not one person in a thousand understands aught but the rudiments: here, then, is the field in which the critical ignoramus may expatiate at large with the minimum danger of discovery. Nay, with no scintilla of danger; for the subject matter is so obscure and abstruse that the grossest of errors may put on a bold face and parade as a profundity, or, driven to bay, proclaim itself a paradox. Only say what you have not got to say authoritatively and well, and the world shall fall down and worship you. The place of art in religion has undergone a peculiar historical development. First men worshipped the object of art; then they worshipped the artist; and nowadays they worship the art critic."
"It is true," said Lillie reflectively. "This age has witnessed the apotheosis of the art critic."
"And of all critics. And yet what can be more evident than that the art of criticism was never in such a critical condition? Nobody asks to see the critic's credentials. He is taken at his own valuation. There ought to be an examination to protect the public. Even schoolmasters are now required to have certificates; while those who pretend to train the larger mind in the way it should think are left to work their mischief uncontrolled. No dramatic critic should be allowed to practise without an elementary knowledge of human life, law, Shakespeare, and French. The musical critic should be required to be able to perform on some one instrument other than his own trumpet, to distinguish tune from tonality, to construe the regular sonata, to comprehend the plot ofIl Trovatore, and to understand the motives of Wagner. The art critic shouldbe able to discriminate between a pastel and a water-color, an impressionist drawing and a rough sketch, to know the Dutch school from the Italian, and the female figure from the male, to translate morbidezza and chiaroscuro, and failing this, to be aware of the existence and uses of a vanishing point. A doctor's certificate should also be produced to testify that the examinee is in possession of all the normal faculties; deafness, blindness, and color-blindness being regarded as disqualifications, and no one should be allowed to practise unless he enjoyed a character for common honesty supplemented by a testimonial from a clergyman, for although art is non-moral the critic should be moral. This would be merely the passman stage; there could always be examinations in honors for the graduates. Once the art critics were educated, the progress of the public would be rapid. They would no longer be ready to admire the canvases of Michael Angelo, who, as I learnt the other day for the first time, painted frescoes, nor would they prefer him, as unhesitatingly as they do now, to Buonarotti, which is his surname, nor would they imagine Raffaelle's Cartoons appeared inPuncinello. All these mistakes I have myself made, though no one discovered them; while in the realm of music no one has more misrepresented the masters, more discouraged the overtures of young composers."
"But still I do not understand how it is done," urged Lillie.
"You shall have my formula in a nutshell. I had to be a musical critic and an art critic. I was ignorant of music and knew nothing of art. But I was a dab at language. When I was talking of music, I used the nomenclature of art. I spoke of light and shade, color and form, delicacy of outline, depth and atmosphere, perspective, foreground and background, nocturnes and harmonies in blue. I analyzed symphonies pictoriallyand explained what I saw defiling before me as the music swept on. Sunsets and belvedere towers, swarthy Paynims on Shetland ponies, cypress plumes and Fra Angelico's cherubs, lumps of green clay and delicate pillared loggias, fennel tufts and rococo and scarlet anemones, and over all the trail of the serpent. Thus I created an epoch in musical criticism. On the other hand, when I had to deal with art, I was careful to eschew every suggestion of the visual vocabulary and to confine myself to musical phrases. In talking of pictures, I dwelt upon their counter-point and their orchestration, their changes of key and the evolution of their ideas, their piano and forte-passages, and their bars of rest, their allegro and diminuendo aspects, their suspensions on the dominant. I spoke of them as symphonies and sonatas and masses, said one was too staccato and another too full of consecutive sevenths, and a third in need of transposition to the minor. Thus I created an epoch in art criticism. In both departments the vague and shifting terms I introduced enabled me to evade mistakes and avoid detection, while the creation of two epochs gave me the very first place in contemporary criticism. There is nothing in which I would not undertake to create an epoch. I do not say I have always been happy, and it has been a source of constant regret to me that I had not even learnt to play the piano when a girl and that unplayed music still remained to me little black dots."
"And so you did not dare marry the composer?"
"No, nor tell him why. Volume Three: I said I admired him so much that I wanted to go on devoting critical essays to him, and my praises would be discounted by the public if I were his wife. Was it not imprudent for him to alienate the leading critic by marrying her? Rather would I sacrifice myself and continue to criticise him. ButI love him, and it is for his sake I would become an Old Maid."
"I would rather you didn't," said Lillie, her face still white. "I have found so much inspiration in your books that I could not bear to be daily reminded I ought not to have found it."
Poor president! The lessons of experience were hard! The Club taught her much she were happier without.
That day Lord Silverdale appropriately intoned (with banjo obligato) a patter-song which he pretended to have written at the Academy, whence he had just come with the conventional splitting headache.
AFTER THE ACADEMY—A JINGLE.
(NOT BY ALFRED JINGLE.)
Brain a-whirling, pavement twirling,Cranium aching, almost baking,Mind a muddle, puddle, fuddle.Million pictures, million mixtures,Small and great 'uns, Brown's and Leighton's,Sky and wall 'uns, short and tall 'uns,Pseudo classic for, alas!SicTransit gloria sub Victoriâ),Landscape, figure, white or nigger,Steely etchings, inky sketchings,Genre, portrait (not one caught trait),Eke historic (kings plethoric),Realistic, prize-fight-fistic,Entozoic, nude, heroic,Coarse, poetic, homiletic,Still-life (flowers, tropic bowers),Pure domestic, making breast tickWith emotion; endless ocean,Glaze or scrumble, craze and jumble,Varnish mastic, sculpture plastic,Canvas, paper (oh, for taper!)Oil and water, (oh, for slaughter!)Children, cattle, 'busses, battle,Seamen, satyrs, lions, waiters,Nymphs and peasants, peers and pheasants,Dogs and flunkeys, gods and monkeysHalf-dressed ladies, views of Hades,Phillis tripping, seas and shipping,Hearth and meadow, brooks and bread-dough,Doves and dreamers, stars and steamers,Saucepans, blossoms, rags, opossums,Tramway, cloudland, wild and ploughed land,Gents and mountains, clocks and fountains,Pan and pansy—these of fancyHave possession in processionNever-ending, ever blending,All a-flitter and a-glitter,Ever prancing, ever dancing,Ever whirling, ever curling,Ever swirling, ever twirling,Ever bobbing, ever throbbing.Ho, some brandy—is it handy?Air seems tainting, I am fainting.Hang all—no,don'thang all—painting!
Brain a-whirling, pavement twirling,Cranium aching, almost baking,Mind a muddle, puddle, fuddle.Million pictures, million mixtures,Small and great 'uns, Brown's and Leighton's,Sky and wall 'uns, short and tall 'uns,Pseudo classic for, alas!SicTransit gloria sub Victoriâ),Landscape, figure, white or nigger,Steely etchings, inky sketchings,Genre, portrait (not one caught trait),Eke historic (kings plethoric),Realistic, prize-fight-fistic,Entozoic, nude, heroic,Coarse, poetic, homiletic,Still-life (flowers, tropic bowers),Pure domestic, making breast tickWith emotion; endless ocean,Glaze or scrumble, craze and jumble,Varnish mastic, sculpture plastic,Canvas, paper (oh, for taper!)Oil and water, (oh, for slaughter!)Children, cattle, 'busses, battle,Seamen, satyrs, lions, waiters,Nymphs and peasants, peers and pheasants,Dogs and flunkeys, gods and monkeysHalf-dressed ladies, views of Hades,Phillis tripping, seas and shipping,Hearth and meadow, brooks and bread-dough,Doves and dreamers, stars and steamers,Saucepans, blossoms, rags, opossums,Tramway, cloudland, wild and ploughed land,Gents and mountains, clocks and fountains,Pan and pansy—these of fancyHave possession in processionNever-ending, ever blending,All a-flitter and a-glitter,Ever prancing, ever dancing,Ever whirling, ever curling,Ever swirling, ever twirling,Ever bobbing, ever throbbing.Ho, some brandy—is it handy?Air seems tainting, I am fainting.Hang all—no,don'thang all—painting!
THE BEAUTIFUL GHOUL.
Wee Winnie called at the Club, while the President was still under the cloud of depression, and Lillie had to force herself to look cheerful, lest Miss Nimrod should mistake the melancholy, engendered by so many revelations of the seamy side of life, for loss of faith in the Club or its prospects.
Avid of experience as was the introspective little girl, she felt almost fated for the present.
Miss Nimrod was astonished to hear of the number of rejections, and to learn that she had whipped up the Writers, and the Junior Widows, and her private friends to such little purpose. But in the end she agreed with Lillie that, as no doubt somewhere or other in the wide universe ideal Old Maids were blooming and breathing, it would be folly to clog themselves up in advance with inferior specimens.
The millionaire, who was pottering about in blue spectacles, strolled into the club while Wee Winnie was uttering magnificent rhapsodies about the pages the Club would occupy in the histories of England, but this time Lillie was determined the dignity of the by-laws should be maintained, and had her father shown out by Turple the magnificent. Miss Nimrod went, too, and so Lord Silverdale had the pleasure of finding Lillie alone.
"You ought to present me with a pair of white gloves," he said, gleefully.
"Why?" asked Lillie.
"I haven't had a single candidate to try for days."
"No," said Lillie with a suspicion of weariness in her voice. "They all broke down in the elementary stage."
Even as she spoke Turple the magnificent ushered in Miss Margaret Linbridge. Lord Silverdale, doubly vexed at having been a little too previous in the counting of his chickens, took up his hat to go, but Lillie murmured: "Please amuse yourself in the library for a quarter of an hour, as I may want you to do the trying at once."
"How do you expect me to amuse myself in the library?" he grumbled. "You don't keep one of my books."
Miss Margaret Linbridge's story was simple, almost commonplace.
"I had spent Christmas with a married sister in Plymouth," she said, "and was returning to London by the express on the first of January. My prospects for the New Year were bright—or seemed so to my then unsophisticated eyes. I was engaged to be married to Richard Westbourne—a good and good-looking young man, not devoid of pecuniary attractions. My brother, with whom I lived and on whom I was dependent, was a struggling young firework-manufacturer, and would, I knew, be glad to see me married, even if it cost him a portion of his stock to express his joy. The little seaside holiday had made me look my prettiest, and when my brother-in-law saw me into a first-class carriage and left me with a fraternally-legal kiss, I rather pitied him for having to go back to my sister. There was only one other person in the carriage beside myself—a stern old gentleman, who sat crumpled up in the opposite corner and read a paper steadily.
"The train flew along the white frosty landscape at expressrates, but the old gentleman never looked up from his paper. The temperature was chill and I coughed. The old gentleman evinced no symptom of sympathy. I rolled up my veil the better to see the curmudgeon, and smiled to think what a fool he was, but he betrayed no sign of sharing my amusement.
"At last, as he was turning his page, I said in my most dulcet tones: 'Oh, pray excuse my appropriating the entire foot-warmer. I don't know why there is only one, but I will share it with you with pleasure.'
"'Thank you,' he said gruffly, 'I'm not cold.'
"'Oh, aren't you!' I murmured inwardly, adding aloud with a severe wintry tone, 'Gentlemen of your age usually are.'
"'Yes, but I'm not a gentleman of my age,' he growled, mistaking the imbecile statement for repartee.
"'I beg your pardon,' said I. 'I was judging by appearances. Is that theSaturday Slasheryou have there?'
"He shook himself impatiently. 'No, it is not.'
"'I beg your pardon,' said I. 'I was again judging by appearances. May I ask what it is?'
"'Threepenny Bits!' he jerked back.
"'What's that?' I asked. 'I knowBroken Bits.'
"'This is a superior edition ofBroken Bitsat the price indicated by the title. It contains the same matter, but is issued at a price adapted to the means of the moneyed and intellectual classes. No self-respecting person can be seen reading penny weeklies—it throws doubt not only on his income, but on his mental calibre. The idea of this first-class edition (so to speak) should make the fortune of the proprietor, and deservedly so. Of course, the thousand pound railway assurance scheme is likewise trebled, though this part of the paper does not attract me personally, for my next-of-kin is a hypocritical young rogue. But imagine the horror of being found dead witha penny weekly in one's pocket! You can't even explain it away.'
"He had hardly finished the sentence before a terrible shock, as of a ton of dynamite exploding under the foot-warmer, lifted me into the air; the carriage collapsed like matchwood, and I had the feeling of being thrown into the next world. For a moment I recovered a gleam of consciousness, just enough to show me I was lying dying amid thedébris, and that my companion lay, already dead, in a fragment of the compartment,Threepenny Bitsclenched in his lifeless hand.
"With a last fond touch I smoothed my hair, which had got rather ruffled in the catastrophe, and extracting with infinite agony a puff from my pocket I dabbed it spasmodically over my face. I dared not consult my hand-mirror, I was afraid it would reveal a distorted countenance and unnecessarily sadden my last moments. Whatever my appearance, I had done my best for it, and I wanted to die with the consciousness of duty fulfilled. Murmuring a prayer that those who found my body would not imitate me in judging by appearances, if they should prove discreditable after all, I closed my eyes upon the world in which I had been so young and happy. My whole life passed in review before me, all my dearly loved bonnets, my entire wardrobe from infancy upwards. Now I was an innocent child with a white sash and pink ribbons, straying amid the sunny meadows and plucking the daisies to adorn my hats; anon a merry maiden sporting amid the jocund schoolboys and receiving tribute in toffy; then again a sedate virgin in original gowns and tailor-made jackets. Suddenly a strange idea jostled through the throng of bitter-sweet memories.Threepenny Bits!
"The old gentleman's next-of-kin would come in for three thousand pounds! I should die and leave nothingto my relatives but regrets; my generous brother would be forever inconsolable now, and my funeral might be mean and unworthy. And yet if the old misogynist had only been courteous enough to lend me the paper, seeing I had nothing to read, it might have been found on my body.De mortuis nil nisi bonum.Why reveal his breach of etiquette to the world? Why should I not enable him to achieve posthumous politeness! Besides, his heir was a hypocritical rogue, and it were a crime against society to place so large a sum at his disposal. Overwhelmed as I was by the agonies of death, I steeled myself to this last duty. I wriggled painfully towards the corpse, and stretching out my neatly-gloved fingers, with a last mighty effort I pulled the paper cautiously from the dead hand whichlay heavy upon it. Then I clasped it passionately to my heart and died."
I pulled the paper from the dead hand.
I pulled the paper from the dead hand.
I pulled the paper from the dead hand.
"Died?" echoed Lillie excitedly.
"Well—lost consciousness. You are particular to a shade. Myself I see no difference between a fainting fit and death except that one attack of the latter is fatal."
"As to that," answered Lillie. "I consider we die every night and dream we are alive. To fall asleep is to die painlessly. It is, perhaps, a pity we are resurrected to tea and toast and toilette. However, I am glad you did not really die. I feared I was in for a tale of re-incarnation or spooks or hypnotism or telepathy or astral bodies. One hears so many marvellous stories, now that we have left off believing in miracles. Really, man's credulity is the perpetual miracle."
"I have not left off believing in miracles," replied Miss Linbridge seriously. "How could I? Was I not saved by one? A very gallant miracle, too, for it took no trouble to save my crusty old fellow-traveller, while it left me without a scratch. I am afraid I should not have been grateful for salvation without good looks. To face life without a pretty face were worse than death. You agree with me?"
"Not entirely. There are higher things in life than beautiful faces," said Lillie gravely.
"Certainly. Beautiful bonnets," said the candidate with laughing levity. "And lower things—beautiful boots. But you would not seriously argue that there is anything else so indispensable to a woman as beauty, or that to live plain is worth the trouble of living?"
"Why not? Plain living and high thinking!" murmured Lillie.
"All nonsense! We needn't pretend—we aren't with men. You would talk differently if you were born ugly!Goodness gracious, don't we know that a girl may have a whole cemetery of virtues and no man will look at her if she is devoid of charms of face or purse. It's all nonsense what Ruskin says about a well-bred modest girl being necessarily beautiful. It is only a pleasing fiction that morality is invaluable to the complexion. Of course if Ruskin's girl chose to dress with care, she could express her goodness less plainly; but as a rule goodness and dowdiness are synonymous. I think the function of a woman is to look well, and our severest reprobation should be extended to those conscienceless creatures who allow themselves to be seen in the company of gentlemen in frumpish attire. It is a breach of etiquette towards the other sex. A woman must do credit to the man who stakes his reputation for good taste by being seen in her society. She must achieve beauty for his sake, and should no more leave her boudoir without it than if she were an actress leaving her dressing-room."
"That the man expects the woman to make his friends envy him is true," answered Lillie, "and I have myself expressed this in yonder epigram,It is man who is vain of woman's dress. But were we created merely to gratify man's vanity?"
"Is not that a place in nature to be vain of? We are certainly not proud of him. Think of the average husband over whom the woman has to shed the halo of her beauty. It is like poetry and prose bound together. It is because I intend to be permanently beautiful that I have come to cast in my lot with the Old Maids' Club. Your rules ordain it so—and rightly."
"The Club must be beautiful, certainly, but merely to escape being twitted with ugliness by the shallow; for the rest, it should disdain beauty. However, pray continue your story. It left off at a most interesting point. You lost consciousness!"
"Yes, but as my chivalrous miracle had saved me from damage, I was found unconsciously beautiful (which I have always heard is the most graceful way of wearing your beauty). I soon came to myself with the aid of a dark-eyed doctor, and I then learnt that the old gentleman had been too weak to sustain the shock and that his poor old pulse had ceased to beat. My rescuers had not disturbedThreepenny Bitsfrom its position 'twixt my hand and heart in case I should die and need it; so when the line was cleared and I was sent on to London after a pleasant lunch with the dark-eyed doctor, I had the journal to read after all, despite the discourtesy of the deceased. When I arrived at Paddington I found Richard Westbourne walking the platform like Hamlet's ghost, white and trembling. He was scanning the carriages feverishly, as the train glided in with its habitual nonchalance.
"'My darling!' he cried when he caught sight of my dainty hat with its sweet trimmings. 'Thank Heaven!' He twisted the door violently open and kissed me before the crowd. Fortunately I had my lovely spotted veil all down, so he only pressed the tulle to my lips.
"'What is the matter?' I said ingenuously.
"'The accident!' he gasped. Weren't you in the accident?'
"'Of course I was. But I was not very much crumpled. If I had sat in the other corner I should have been killed!"
"'My heroine!' he cried. 'How brave of you!' He made as if he would rumple my hair but I drew back.
"'Were you waiting for me?' I asked.
"'Of course. Hours and hours. O the agony of it! See, here is the evening paper! It gives you as dead.'
"'Where?' I cried, nervously. His trembling forefinger pointed to the place. 'A beautiful young lady was alsoextricated in an unconscious condition from this carriage.'
"'Isn't it wonderful the news should be in London before me?' I murmured. 'But I suppose they will have names and fuller particulars in a later edition.'
"'Of course. But fancy my having to be in London, unable to get to you for love or money!'
"'Yes, it was very hard for me to be there all alone,' I murmured. 'But please run and see after my luggage, there are three portmanteaus and a little black one, and three bonnet boxes, and two parasols, and call a hansom, oh—and a brown paper parcel, and a long narrow cardboard box—and get me the latest editions of the evening papers—and please see that the driver isn't drunk, and don't take a knock-kneed horse or one that paws the ground, you know those hansom doors fly open and shoot you out like rubbish—I do so hate them—and oh! Richard, don't forget those novels from Mudie's,—they're done up with a strap. Three bonnet boxes, remember, andallthe evening papers, mind.'
"When we were bowling homewards he kept expressing his joy by word and deed, so that I was unable to read my papers. At last, annoyed, I said: 'You wouldn't be so glad if you knew that my resurrection cost three thousand pounds.'
"'How do you mean?'
"'Why, if I had died, somebody would have had three thousand pounds. This number ofThreepenny Bitswould have been found on my body, and would have entitled my heir to that amount of assurance money. I need not tell you who my heir is, nor to whom I had left my little all.'
"I looked into his face and from the tenderness that overflowed it I saw he fancied himself the favored mortal. There is no end to the conceit of young men.A sensible fellow would have known at once that my brother was the only person reasonably entitled to my scanty belongings. However, there is no good done by disturbing a lover's complacency.
"'I do not want your money,' he answered, again passionately pressing my tulle veil to my lips. 'I infinitely prefer your life.'
"'What a bloodthirsty highwayman!'
"'I shall steal another kiss. I would rather have you than all the gold in the world.'
"'Still, gold is the next best thing,' I said, smiling at his affectionateness which my absence had evidently fostered. 'So being on the point of death, as I thought, I resolved to make death worth dying, and leave a heap of gold to the man I loved. This number ofThreepenny Bitswas not mine originally. When the crash occurred it was being read by the old gentleman in the opposite corner but his next of kin is a hypocritical young scapegrace (so he told me) and I thought it would be far nicer formyheir to come in for the money. So I took it from his body the very instant before I fainted dead away!'
"'My heroine!' he cried again. 'So you thought of your Richard even at the point of death. What a sweet assurance of your love!'
"'Yes, an assurance of three thousand pounds,' I answered, laughing merrily. 'And now, perhaps, you will let me read the details of the catastrophe. The reporters seem to know ever so much more about it than I do. It's getting dusk and I can hardly see—I wonder what was the name of old grizzly-growler—ah! here it is—"The pocket-book contained letters addressed to Josiah Twaddon, Esquire, and——"'
"'Twaddon, did you say?' gasped Richard, clutching the paper frantically.
"'Yes—don't! You've torn it. Twaddon, I can see it plainly.'
"'Does it give his address?' Richard panted.
"'Yes,' I said, surprised. I was just going on to read that, '4, Bucklesbury Buildings——'"
"'Great heavens!' he cried.
"'What is it? Why are you so pale and agitated? Was he anything to you. Ah, I guess it—by my prophetic soul, your uncle!'
"'Yes,' he answered bitterly. 'My uncle! My mother's brother! Wretched woman, what have you done?'
"My heart was beating painfully and I felt hot all over, but outwardly I froze.
"'You know what I have done,' I replied icily.
"'Yes, robbed me of three thousand pounds!' he cried.
"'How dare you say that?' I answered indignantly. 'Why, it was for you I meant them.'
"The statement was not, perhaps, strictly accurate, but my indignation was sufficiently righteous to cover a whole pack of lies.
"'Your intentions may have been strictly honorable,' he retorted, 'but your behavior was abominable. Great heavens! Do you know that you could be prosecuted?'
"'Nonsense!' I said stoutly, though my heart misgave me. 'What for?'
"'What for? You, a plunderer of the dead, a harpy, a ghoul, ask what for?'
"'But the thing was of no value!' I urged.
"'Of no intrinsic value, perhaps, but of immense value under the peculiar circumstances. Why, if anyone chose to initiate a prosecution, you would be sent to jail as a common thief."
"'Pardon me,' I said haughtily. 'You forget you are speaking to a lady. As such, I can never be more than akleptomaniac. You might make me suffer from hysteria yesterday, but the worst that could befall me now would be a most interesting advertisement. Prosecute me and you will create for me an army of friends all over the world. If it is thus that lovers behave, it is better to have friends. I shall be glad of the exchange.'