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FLATTERY.
Within a year Walter began to be known--to the profession, at least--as
a promising writer; and was already, to more than a few, personally
known as a very agreeable, gentlemanly fellow, so that in the following
season he had a good many invitations. It was by nothing beyond the
ephemeral that he was known; but may not the man who has invented a good
umbrella one day build a good palace? His acquaintance was considerably
varied, but of the social terraces above the professional, he knew for a
time nothing.
One evening, however, he happened to meet, and was presented to Lady
Tremaine: she had asked to have the refined-looking young man, of whom
she had just heard as one of the principal writers in the "Field
Battery," introduced to her. She was a matronly, handsome woman, with
cordial manners and a cold eye; frank, easy, confident, unassuming.
Under the shield of her position, she would walk straight up to any
subject, and speak her mind of it plainly. It was more than easy to
become acquainted with her when she chose.
The company was not a large one, and they soon found themselves alone in
a quiet corner.
"You are a celebrated literary man, Mr. Colman, they tell me!" said Lady
Tremaine.
"Not in the least," answered Walter. "I am but a poor hack."
"It is well to be modest; but I am not bound to take your description of
yourself. Your class at least is in a fair way to take the lead!"
"In what, pray?"
"In politics, in society, in everything."
"You ladyship can not think it desirable."
"I do not pretend to desire it. I am not false to my own people. But the
fact remains that you are coming to the front, and we are falling
behind. And the sooner you get to the front, the better it will be for
the world, and for us too."
"I can not say I understand you."
"I will tell you why. There are now no fewer than three aristocracies.
There is one of rank, and one of brains. I belong to the one, you to the
other. But there is a third."
"If you recognize the rich as an aristocracy, you must allow me to
differ from you--very much!"
"Naturally. I quite agree with you. But what can your opinion and mine
avail against the rising popular tide! All the old families are melting
away, swallowed by the nouveaux riches. I should not mind, or at least
I should feel it in me to submit with a good grace, if we were pushed
from our stools by a new aristocracy of literature and science, but I do
rebel against the social régime which is every day more strongly
asserting itself. All the gradations are fast disappearing; the
palisades of good manners, dignity, and respect, are vanishing with the
hedges; the country is positively inundated with slang and
vulgarity--all from the ill-breeding, presumption, and self-satisfaction
of new people."
Walter felt tempted to ask whether it was not the fault of the existent
aristocracy in receiving and flattering them; whether it could not
protect society if it would; whether in truth the aristocracy did not
love, even honor money as much as they; but he was silent.
As if she read his thought, Lady Tremaine resumed:
"The plague of it is that younger sons must live! Money they must
have!--and there's the gate off the hinges! The best, and indeed the
only thing to help is, that the two other aristocracies make common
cause to keep the rich in their proper place."
It was not a very subtle flattery, but Walter was pleased. The lady saw
she had so far gained her end, for she had an end in view, and changed
the subject.
"You go out of an evening, I see!" she said at length. "I am glad. Some
authors will not."
"I do when I can. The evening, however, to one who--who--"
"--Has an eye on posterity! Of course! It is gold and diamonds! How
silly all our pursuits must appear in your eyes! But I hope you will
make an exception in my favor!"
"I shall be most happy," responded Walter, cordially.
"I will not ask you to come and be absorbed in a crowd--not the first
time at least! Gould you not manage to come and see me in the morning?"
"I am at your ladyship's service," replied Walter.
"Then come--let me see!--the day after to-morrow--about five o'clock.
17, Goodrich Square."
Walter could not but be flattered that Lady Tremaine was so evidently
pleased with him. She called his profession an aristocracy too!
therefore she was not patronizing him, but receiving him on the same
social level! We can not blame him for the inexperience which allowed
him to hold his head a little higher as he walked home.
There was little danger of his forgetting the appointment. Lady Tremaine
received him in what she called her growlery, with cordiality. By and by
she led the way toward literature, and after they had talked of several
new books--
"We are not in this house altogether strange," she said, "to your
profession. My daughter Lufa is an authoress in her way. You, of course,
never heard of her, but it is twelve months since her volume of verse
came out."
Surely Walter had, somewhere about that time, when helping his friend
Sullivan, seen a small ornate volume of verses, with a strange name like
that on the title-page! Whether he had written a notice of it he could
not remember.
"It was exceedingly well received--for a first, of course! Lufa hardly
thought so herself, but I told her what could she expect, altogether
unknown as she was. Tell me honestly, Mr. Colman, is there not quite as
much jealousy in your profession as in any other?"
Walter allowed it was not immaculate in respect of envy and evil
speaking.
"You have so much opportunity for revenge, you see!" said Lady Tremaine;
"and such a coat of darkness for protection! With a few strokes of the
pen a man may ruin his rival!"
"Scarcely that!" returned Walter. "If a book be a good book, the worst
of us can not do it much harm; nor do I believe there are more than a
few in the profession who would condescend to give a false opinion upon
the work of a rival; though doubtless personal feeling may pervert the
judgment."
"That, of course," returned the lady, "is but human! You can not deny,
however, that authors occasionally make furious assaults on each other!"
"Authors ought not to be reviewers," replied Walter. "I fancy most
reviewers avoid the work of an acquaintance even, not to say a friend or
enemy."
The door opened, and what seemed to Walter as lovely a face as could
ever have dawned on the world, peeped in, and would have withdrawn.
"Lufa," said Lady Tremaine, "you need not go away. Mr. Colman and I have
no secrets. Come and be introduced to him."
She entered--a small, pale creature, below the middle height, with the
daintiest figure, and child-like eyes of dark blue, very clear,
and--must I say it?--for the occasion "worn" wide. Her hair was brown,
on the side of black, divided in the middle, and gathered behind in a
great mass. Her dress was something white, with a shimmer of red about
it, and a blush-rose in the front. She greeted Walter in the simplest,
friendliest way, holding out her tiny hand very frankly. Her features
were no smaller than for her size they ought to be, in themselves
perfect, \Walter thought, and in harmony with her whole being and
carriage. Her manner was a gentle, unassuming assurance--almost as if
they knew each other, but had not met for some time. Walter felt some
ancient primeval bond between them--dim, but indubitable.
The mother withdrew to her writing-table, and began to write, now and
then throwing in a word as they talked. Lady Lufa seemed pleased with
her new acquaintance; Walter was bewitched. Bewitchment I take to be the
approach of the real to our ideal. Perhaps upon that, however, depends
even the comforting or the restful. In the heart of every one lies the
necessity for homeliest intercourse with the perfectly lovely; we are
made for it. Yet so far are we in ourselves from the ideal, which no man
can come near until absolutely devoted to its quest, that we continually
take that for sufficing which is a little beyond.
"I think, Mr. Colman, I have seen something of yours! You do put your
name to what you write?" said Lady Lufa.
"Not always," replied Walter.
"I think the song must have been yours!"
Walter had, just then, for the first time published a thing of his own.
That it should have arrested the eye of this lovely creature! He
acknowledged that he had printed a trifle in "The Observatory."
"I was charmed with it!" said the girl, the word charmingly drawled.
"The merest trifle!" remarked Walter. "It cost me nothing."
He meant what he said, unwilling to be judged by such a slight thing.
"That is the beauty of it!" she answered. "Your song left your soul as
the thrush's leaves his throat. Should we prize the thrush's more if we
came upon him practicing it?"
Walter laughed.
"But we are not meant to sing like the birds!"
"That you could write such a song without effort, shows you to possess
the bird-gift of spontaneity."
Walter was surprised at her talk, and willing to believe it profound.
"The will and the deed in one may be the highest art!" he said. "I
hardly know."
"May I write music to it?" asked Lady Lufa, with upward glance, sweet
smile, and gently apologetic look.
"I am delighted you should think of doing so. It is more than it
deserves!" answered Walter. "My only condition is, that you will let me
hear it."
"That you have a right to. Besides, I dared not publish it without
knowing you liked it."
"Thank you so much! To hear you sing it will let me know at once whether
the song itself be genuine."
"No, no! I may fail in my part, and yours be all I take it to be. But I
shall not fail. It holds me too fast for that!"
"Then I may hope for a summons?" said Walter, rising.
"Before long. One can not order the mood, you know!"
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