Lillie's best hopes were confirmed. The famous critic wished to become an Old Maid. The President and the new and promising4 candidate had a delightful5 chat over a cup of tea and the prospects6 of the Club. The two girls speedily became friends.
"But if you join us, hadn't you better go back to your maiden7 name?" inquired Lillie.
"Perhaps so," said Frank Maddox thoughtfully. "My pen-name does sound odd under the peculiar8 circumstances. On the other hand to revert9 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 you have had 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 furrows10 of gold-laced sagging11 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 habitual12 art-critic. I thought I was describing a harmony of Whistler's or a movement from a sonata13. 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, stammers14, and offers to go away. Struck by something of innate15 refinement16 in his manner, she presses him to avow17 the object of his visit. At last, in dignified18 language, infinitely19 touching20 in its reticence21, he confesses he called on Mr. Frank Maddox, the writer he admires so much, to ask a little pecuniary22 help. He is starving. Original, isn't it, to have your hero hungry in the first chapter? He speaks vaguely23 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 destitute24 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 prescription25 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 the Moon. Give him the note; he will change it for you. Don't mention my name.'
"There's a prescription against starvation."
"He thanked me and withdrew."
"And what was in the note?" asked Lillie curiously26.
"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 the Moon gave 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 perquisite27 of fame. Why, I have a pensioner28 who comes in for all my Acadæum paragraphs. That Moon part 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 passionately29 than ever, and that he has come to ask me to crown his life. The whole thing is so romantic that I am about to whisper 'yes' when an instinct of common sense comes to my aid and my half-opened lips murmur30 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 morbid31 if you will—for obscurity in the midst of renown32. I have weekly harvests of hair to escape any suspicion of musical attainments33. 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 rambled34 on, growing in enthusiasm with every ardent35 phrase, the while a deadly coldness was fastening round my heart. For I felt that it could not be."
"And why?" inquired Lillie in astonishment36. "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 idol37 shivered! "But how——?" she gasped38.
"There, then, don't take on so," said the great critic kindly39. "I did not think you, too, were such an admirer of [pg 282] mine, else I might have spared you the shock. You ask how it is done. Well, I didn't set out to criticise40. I can at least plead that in extenuation41. My nature is not wilfully42 perverse43. There was a time when I was as pure and above criticism as yourself." She paused and furtively44 wiped away a tear, then resumed more calmly, "I drifted into it. For years I toiled45 on, without ever a thought of musical and art criticism sullying my maiden meditations46. My downfall was gradual. In early maidenhood47 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 playwrights48. 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 indirectly49 by my type-writing, for contact with so much admirable work fostered the graceful50 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 modesty51. 'I see, that's your special line,' he said musingly52. '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 humbly53 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 lodging54 it in the printer's copy pigeonhole55. His income in fees from journalistic aspirants56 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 desperately57. 'None,' he said sadly. 'Our editor is an awful old fogey. He is vehemently58 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 sneer59.
"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.
"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 inserted my 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 strictly60 to the old grooves61, the paper would stagnate
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