The Old Maids' Club

by Israel Zangwill

  CHAPTER VIII.

  MORE ABOUT THE CHERUB.

  The trial interview between Lord Silverdale and Ellaline Rand took placein the rooms of the Old Maids' Club in the presence of the President.Lillie, encouraged by the rush of candidates, occupied herself inembroidering another epigrammatic antimacassar--"It is man who is vainof woman's dress." She had deliberately placed herself out of earshot.To Miss Rand, Lord Silverdale was a casual visitor with whom she haddrifted into conversation, yet she behaved as prettily as if she knewshe was undergoing the _viva-voce_ portion of the examination forentranceship.

  There are two classes of flirts--those who love to flirt, and those whoflirt to love. There is little to be said against the latter, for theyare merely experimenting. They intend to fall in love, but they canhardly compass it without preliminary acquaintance, and by givingthemselves a wide and varied selection, are more likely to discover thefitting object of affection. It is easy to confound both classes offlirts together, and heartbroken lovers generally do so, when they donot use a stronger expression. But so far as Lord Silverdale could tell,there was nothing in Miss Rand's behavior to justify him in relegatingher to either class, or to make him doubt the genuineness of theanti-hymeneal feelings provoked by her disappointment in Trepolpen. Hermanner was simple and artless--she gushed, indeed, but charmingly, likea daintily sculptured figure on a marble fountain in a fair pleasaunce.You could be as little offended by her gush, as by her candidconfessions of her own talents. The Lord had given her a good conceit ofherself, and given it her so gracefully, that it was one of her chiefestcharms. She spoke with his lordship of Shakespeare and others of herprofession, 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, youcannot get into direct _rapport_ with your public. Your characters areyour 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 tothem and gather them to it. There is a legitimate curiosity to learn allabout me--the same curiosity that I feel about other authors. Why shouldI allow myself to be viewed in the refracting medium of alien ink? Letme sketch myself to my readers, tell them what I eat and drink, and howI write, and when, what clothes I wear and how much I pay for them, whatI think of this or that book of mine, of this or that character of mycreation, 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 shalloccupy all the stories, and every column will have me at the top. Inthis way I hope, not only to gratify my yearnings for sympathy, but tostimulate the circulation of my books. Nay more, with the eye of myadmirers thus encouragingly upon me, I shall work more zealously. Yousee, Lord Silverdale, we authors are a race apart--without the publichanging upon our words, we are like butterflies in a London fog, oractors playing to an empty auditorium."

  "I have noticed that," said Lord Silverdale dryly, "before authorssucceed, it takes them a year to write a book, after they succeed ittakes them only a month."

  "You see I am right," said Ellaline eagerly. "That's what the sun ofpublic sympathy does. It ripens work quickly."

  "Yes, and when the sun is very burning, it sometimes takes the authorsno 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 atChristmas. Don't think I'm finding fault. I look upon an author whokeeps his ghost, as I do on a tradesmen who keeps his carriage. It is asign 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 wellas yourself? But why I mentioned about _The Cherub_ is because it hasjust 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 aspirationsin 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 hervoice. "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 lookinginto his.

  "_You_ are not a literary man?" she said irrelevantly.

  "I am afraid I must plead guilty to trying to be," he said. "Theevidence is down in black and white."

  The smile died away and for an instant Ellaline's brow went into blackfor it. She accepted an ice from Turple the magnificent, but took herleave shortly afterwards, Lillie promising to write to her.

  "Well?" said the President when she was left alone with the HonoraryTrier.

  That functionary looked dubious. "Up till the very last she seemedsingle-hearted in her zeal. Then she asked whether _I_ was a literaryman. You know her story. What do you conclude?"

  "I can hardly come to a conclusion. Do you think there is still a dangerof 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, andmay replace him. A paper of your own can puff you rather better than ahusband of your own, it has a larger circulation and more opportunities.An authoress-editress, her worth is far above rubies! Her correspondentspraise her in the gates and her staff shall rise up and call herblessed. It may well be that she will arrive at that stage at which ahusband is an incubus and marriage a manacle. In that day the honor ofthe 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 toadmit her. Her conception of the use of man is so sublime!"

  Lord Silverdale smiled. "Ah, if the truth were known," he said, "Idaresay it would be that pretty women regard man merely as a beast ofdraught and burden, a creature to draw their checks and carry theircloaks."

  Lillie answered, "And men look on pretty women either as home pets or asdrawing-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 ofyou. 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 fr
om 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 verybadly," she exclaimed. "You might have waited a little longer."

  "Do you think so? Then I will go and leave you to your labors," saidLord 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.

  _Rejected Addresses._]

  "A penny for your thoughts," said the millionaire, stealing in upon herreflections.

  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 andsaw 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.