MORE ABOUT THE CHERUB.
The trial interview between Lord Silverdale and Ellaline Rand took place
in the rooms of the Old Maids' Club in the presence of the President.
Lillie, encouraged by the rush of candidates, occupied herself in
embroidering another epigrammatic antimacassar--"It is man who is vain
of woman's dress." She had deliberately placed herself out of earshot.
To Miss Rand, Lord Silverdale was a casual visitor with whom she had
drifted into conversation, yet she behaved as prettily as if she knew
she was undergoing the _viva-voce_ portion of the examination for
entranceship.
There are two classes of flirts--those who love to flirt, and those who
flirt to love. There is little to be said against the latter, for they
are merely experimenting. They intend to fall in love, but they can
hardly compass it without preliminary acquaintance, and by giving
themselves a wide and varied selection, are more likely to discover the
fitting object of affection. It is easy to confound both classes of
flirts together, and heartbroken lovers generally do so, when they do
not use a stronger expression. But so far as Lord Silverdale could tell,
there was nothing in Miss Rand's behavior to justify him in relegating
her to either class, or to make him doubt the genuineness of the
anti-hymeneal feelings provoked by her disappointment in Trepolpen. Her
manner was simple and artless--she gushed, indeed, but charmingly, like
a daintily sculptured figure on a marble fountain in a fair pleasaunce.
You could be as little offended by her gush, as by her candid
confessions of her own talents. The Lord had given her a good conceit of
herself, and given it her so gracefully, that it was one of her chiefest
charms. She spoke with his lordship of Shakespeare and others of her
profession, and mentioned that she was about to establish a paper called
_The Cherub_, after her popular story _The Cherub That Sits Up Aloft_.
"I want to get into closer touch with my readers," she explained,
helping herself charmingly to the chocolate creams. "In a book, you
cannot get into direct _rapport_ with your public. Your characters are
your rivals and distract attention from the personality of the author.
In a journal I shall be able to chat with them freely, open my heart to
them and gather them to it. There is a legitimate curiosity to learn all
about me--the same curiosity that I feel about other authors. Why should
I allow myself to be viewed in the refracting medium of alien ink? Let
me sketch myself to my readers, tell them what I eat and drink, and how
I write, and when, what clothes I wear and how much I pay for them, what
I think of this or that book of mine, of this or that character of my
creation, what my friends think of me, and what I think of my friends.
All the features of the paper will combine to make my face. I shall
occupy all the stories, and every column will have me at the top. In
this way I hope, not only to gratify my yearnings for sympathy, but to
stimulate the circulation of my books. Nay more, with the eye of my
admirers thus encouragingly upon me, I shall work more zealously. You
see, Lord Silverdale, we authors are a race apart--without the public
hanging upon our words, we are like butterflies in a London fog, or
actors playing to an empty auditorium."
"I have noticed that," said Lord Silverdale dryly, "before authors
succeed, it takes them a year to write a book, after they succeed it
takes them only a month."
"You see I am right," said Ellaline eagerly. "That's what the sun of
public sympathy does. It ripens work quickly."
"Yes, and when the sun is very burning, it sometimes takes the authors
no time at all."
"Ah, now you are laughing at me. You are speaking of 'ghosts.'"
"Yes. Ghost stories are published all the year round--not merely at
Christmas. Don't think I'm finding fault. I look upon an author who
keeps his ghost, as I do on a tradesmen who keeps his carriage. It is a
sign he has succeeded."
"Oh, but it's very wicked, giving the public underweight like that!"
said Ellaline in her sweet, serious way. "How can anybody write as well
as yourself? But why I mentioned about _The Cherub_ is because it has
just struck me the paper might become the organ of the Old Maids' Club,
for I should make a point of speaking freely of my aims and aspirations
in joining it. I presume you know all about Miss Dulcimer's scheme?"
"Oh, yes! But I don't think it feasible."
"You don't?" she said, with a little tremor of astonishment in her
voice. "And why not?" She looked anxiously into his eyes for the reply.
"The candidates are too charming to remain single," he explained,
smiling.
She smiled back a little at him, those sweet gray eyes still looking
into his.
"_You_ are not a literary man?" she said irrelevantly.
"I am afraid I must plead guilty to trying to be," he said. "The
evidence is down in black and white."
The smile died away and for an instant Ellaline's brow went into black
for it. She accepted an ice from Turple the magnificent, but took her
leave shortly afterwards, Lillie promising to write to her.
"Well?" said the President when she was left alone with the Honorary
Trier.
That functionary looked dubious. "Up till the very last she seemed
single-hearted in her zeal. Then she asked whether _I_ was a literary
man. You know her story. What do you conclude?"
"I can hardly come to a conclusion. Do you think there is still a danger
of her marrying to get someone to advertise her?"
"I think it depends on _The Cherub_. If _The Cherub_ is born and lives,
it will be a more effectual advertising medium than even a husband, and
may replace him. A paper of your own can puff you rather better than a
husband of your own, it has a larger circulation and more opportunities.
An authoress-editress, her worth is far above rubies! Her correspondents
praise her in the gates and her staff shall rise up and call her
blessed. It may well be that she will arrive at that stage at which a
husband is an incubus and marriage a manacle. In that day the honor of
the Club will be safe in her hands."
"What do you suggest then?" said Lillie anxiously.
"That you wait till she is delivered of _The Cherub_ before deciding."
"Very well," she replied resignedly. "Only I hope we shall be able to
admit her. Her conception of the use of man is so sublime!"
Lord Silverdale smiled. "Ah, if the truth were known," he said, "I
daresay it would be that pretty women regard man merely as a beast of
draught and burden, a creature to draw their checks and carry their
cloaks."
Lillie answered, "And men look on pretty women either as home pets or as
drawing-room decorations."
Silverdale said further, "I do not look on you as either."
To which, Lillie, "Why do you say such obvious things? It is unworthy of
you. Have you anything worthy of you in your pocket to-day?"
"Nothing of your hearing. Just a little poem about another Cherub."
AN ANCIENT PASSION.
Mine is no passion of to-day,
Upblazing like a rocket,
To-morrow doomed to die away
And leave you out of pocket.
Nor is she one who snared my love
By just the woman's graces:
I loved her when, a sucking dove,
She cooed and made grimaces.
And when the pretty darling cried,
I often stooped and kissed her,
Though cold and faint her lips replied,
As though she were my sister.
I loved her long but loved her still
When she discarded long-clothes,
Yet here if she had had her will
Would this romantic song close.
For, though we wandered hand in hand,
Companions close and chronic,
She always made me understand
_Her_ motives were Platonic.
She said me "Nay" with merry mien,
Not weeping like the cayman,
When she was Mab, the Fairy Queen,
And I Tom King, highwayman.
'Twas at a Children's Fancy Ball,
I got that first rejection,
It did not kill my love at all
But heightened its complexion.
My love to tell, when she grew up,
Necessitates italics.
Her hair was like the buttercup
(Corolla not the calyx).
Her form was slim, her eye was bright,
Her mouth a jewel-casket,
Her hand it was so soft and white
I often used to ask it.
And so from year to year I wooed,
My passion growing fiercer,
Though she in modest maiden mood
Addressed me as "My _dear_ sir."
At twenty she was still as coy,
Her heart was like Diana's.
The future held for me no joy,
Save smoking choice Havanas.
At last my perseverance woke
A sweet responsive passion,
And of her love for me she spoke
In woman's wordless fashion.
I told her, when her speech was done,
The task would be above her
To make a happy man of one
Who long had ceased to love her.
Lillie put on an innocently analytical frown. "I think you behaved very
badly," she exclaimed. "You might have waited a little longer."
"Do you think so? Then I will go and leave you to your labors," said
Lord Silverdale with his wonted irrelevancy.
Lillie sat for a long time with pen in hand, thinking without writing.
As a change from writing without thinking this was perhaps a relief.
[Illustration: _Rejected Addresses._]
"A penny for your thoughts," said the millionaire, stealing in upon her
reflections.
Lillie started.
"I am not Ellaline Rand," she said smiling. "Wait till _The Cherub_
comes out, and you will get hers at that price."
"Was Ellaline the girl who has just gone?"
"Did you see her? I thought you were gardening."
"So I was, but I happened to go into the dining-room for a moment and
saw her from the window. I suppose she will be here often."
"I suppose so," said Lillie dubiously.
The millionaire rubbed his hands.
"Miss Eustasia Pallas," announced Turple the magnificent.
"A new candidate, probably," said the President.
"Father, you must go and play in the garden."
The millionaire left the room meekly.