A Literary Courtship/Chapter 3

by Anna Fuller

III.

The Other Lilian.

THE Sandersons were ready enough to accept the novel, and it was not long before the proof-sheets were arriving at my Office addressed to Miss Lilian Leslie Lamb, care of F. Dickson, Esq.

Everything went on swimmingly, and Spoils was published in time for the spring and summer trade. It made an enormous hit, as every one knows. There was a second edition out in no time, and the third and fourth were nearly simultaneous. It was republished in England, and a handsome "consideration" remitted to the author.

Brunt was pleased, of course. Who could have helped being pleased? He was used to success, but not to this kind of success. His Louis XI. and his essays had given him an enviable reputation, but the public does not buy histories and essays by the bushel, and Brunt had never made such a brilliant dash at fame before.

And, after all, I do believe that what pleased John more than anything else was the fact that he had proved himself in the right. The woman's name had certainly not hindered the success of the book. He and I were both convinced that it had actually helped the sale. All the critics dwelt upon the remarkable power of the work, its "virile strength," its "incisive force," and they made haste to add that these qualities were tempered by "true feminine delicacy of feeling," and "nicety of perception." That was where John chuckled. He made a collection of all the reviews—a thing he had never taken the trouble to do with his other books. In that whole collection there were only five notices which contained no allusion to feminine perception and delicacy. But he most of all prized those which declared that the characters were drawn with an "almost masculine power."

It was "nuts" to us, you may be sure. Yet I used to wonder that he could keep the secret. Glory is, after all, a thing a man is not likely to get too much of. But there was one thing that Brunt liked even better than glory, and that was, to prove his point.

"But you have proved your point now," I urged, when the newspapers were fairly crackling with praise. "Do let us tell the fellows at the Pow-wow, at least."

"Not yet," he answered, with quiet determination.

"Don't you mean ever to let them know?" I asked; for I was perfectly flabbergasted at his indifference.

"Oh, yes! Some time or other."

"But, great Scott! when?"

"Well," he answered, thoughtfully, "I shall wait for the twentieth edition, and then see how I feel."

I ought to have said before, that one of the most amusing features of the affair, in its early stages, was the letters which "Miss Lamb" received through her publishers. The Sandersons had been requested not to reveal the address of the new writer, by which means I was saved a good deal of bother. That is. The Sandersons forwarded the letters to my office, and no one else associated my name in the remotest degree with the famous authoress.

At first, as I said, the letters were immensely entertaining. No matter how commonplace or impertinent or high-flown they might be, they always served to heighten the humor of the situation. In fact the best of them—and there were some among them which any author might have been proud to receive—the best of them could hardly be so sensible or so well-conceived as to escape some striking incongruity. At onetime we got into such a chronic state of amusement that we grinned when we didn't mean to, and the fellows asked us "What's the joke?"

One pouring rainy day Brunt came into my Office, and instead of sitting down comfortably he went and drummed on the window pane, gazing down on the umbrellas below, as though they had been a garden of jacqueminot roses. I knew there was something to pay, so when I got tired of waiting Isang out: "Let's have it, Johnny."

I wanted to call him Lilian at first, but he shut down on that. He had a notion I might forget myself. The fact is, he was afraid as a thief of being found out.

"Oh, it's nothing at all," he said, coming over and sitting down in the chair I keep for my clients. I used to hate that chair, for after I had had it several years it looked as good as new. Even now it is in better repair than it ought tobe. There are too many men practising law in New York.

Well, then Johnny pulled a letter out of his pocket, one I had sent around to him the evening before, and handing it to me, said: "Read that."

The hand was a lady's, and had the unusual advantage of being both stylish and legible. The letter was dated at Colorado Springs; and ran as follows:

"My Dear Miss Lamb:

"A glance at my signature may serve as a partial excuse for the liberty I am taking in writing to you. If it were not forthe coincidence in our names, I should know better than to trouble you even with an expression of the very great pleasure which your novel has given me. For there must be literally thousands who have enjoyed that remarkable book, and it would be a poor return to you were we to besiege you with letters.

"Your name and mine, as you will observe, are identical, and my aunt, Mrs. Ellerton, who takes a special interest in genealogy, is convinced that you are a long-lost cousin. Aside from the natural pride we should have in sucha connection, my aunt's hobby—I warned her that I should use the word—is strong enough to give the keenest zest to such an inquiry as she bids me make, even were the bearer of our family name quite unknown to fame.

"To come to the point. My quite incalculably great grandfather came to America in 1625 and was one of the founders of the New Haven colony. His wife was Lilian Leslie, and the name has continued in the family in each succeeding generation. One of his descendants, our own ancestor, was an officer in the colonial ariny, and fellin an Indian skirmish; poor boy! He was barely twenty-one. His widow seems to have been too much engrossed with her one child to have fashed herself about family counections, whereby she unwittingly incurred the ceusure of posterity as represented in her very great granddaughter, my aunt. For, through her indifference to these vital matters, she appears quite to have lost track of her husband's only brother, William, whom my aunt persists in considering the founder ofa collateral branch. This William, being at the tine unmarried, removed to New York State, where he may, for aught we know, have fallen a victim to the Iroquois; though my aunt is unwilling to give him up. She is convinced that if New York were not such a large State, and if it did not harbor so many Lambs, and if those hitherto examined had not betrayed such astounding ignorance in the matter of genealogy, she would certainly have discovered valuable cousins before this. As it is, her efforts have hitherto been fruitless, and I leave you to imagine her joy when she suddenly sees the possibility of success. A new Lamb of any description is always exhilarating, but a Lilian Leslie Lamb exceeds her fondest hopes.

"You will perhaps be interested to know what manner of people we are. I am happy in being able to assure you that we are extremely respectable, crime and abject poverty being alike unknown among us. The conventional black sheep has appeared occasionally within our fold and has been prayed over or disowned according to the temper of his immediate victims. As a family we run to the ministry, though one judge, a generation back, and a plucky young colonel, who waskilled in the war of the Rebellion, form a picturesque variation. A less picturesque variation occurred in the person of my own father, who went into copper. As he spent most of his time in the West, and died when I was a child, I never saw much of him. Indeed I have no near relatives besides my aunt, and I am free to confess that I should value a new cousin highly. I ought to add, in view of your talents, that neither my aunt nor I boasts a shadow of one. In fact, we are very commonplace sort of people. After this admission will you still investigate the case as far as may be perfectly convenient? I am assuming that you have not, up to this time, occupied yourself very much with family trees. And indeed it seems hardly possible that any one woman should have the taste and capacity for both genealogy and literature. My aunt, at least, has not.

"Are there, then, any traditions in your family which point to an ancestor migrating from New Haven to New York in the seventeenth century? Do you know how far back the Leslie in your name dates? Also, are Henrys and Williams prevalent in your family? My ancestor was a Henry. Have you any instances of dark hair with blue eyes? That combination has been frequent among us. And, oh! one thing more! You don't happen to know of a stray malachite ear-ring among your people? My aunt treasures a hideous one of pre-historic date, and fondly hopes to discover its mate in the New York branch. Though why William Lamb should have carried off an odd ear-ring, and one of such extraordinary ugliness, to boot, is not quite clear to my mind.

"I believe I am writing rather at random, for I cannot imagine your reading as far as this. But being under bonds to my aunt to tell the whole story, I could not, in conscience, make the letter shorter. I will offer no apologies, but leave you to make due allowance for the effect of a famous name upon an obscure person. So many people have actually asked me whether I wrote Spoils that my respect for the judgment of my fellow-creatures has perceptibly fallen.

"I remain, dear Miss Lamb,

"Very sincerely,

"Your would-be cousin,

"Lilian Leslie Lamb."

"Well, Jack," I said when I had finished the perusal of this interesting communication, "what are you going to do about it?"

"That is just the question."

"You might keep up the correspondence."

"Francis Dickson, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," cried John, with so much warmth, that I was convinced that he had had the same idea himself, and that that was why he seemed so out of sorts. Brunt has always had the impulses of a Bohemian, together with the character of a gentleman, and they sometimes conflict.

I knew that nothing could entertain him more than a correspondence such as he might perfectly well have carried on with this young lady, and no one ever the wiser, and it did seem such a pity to lose the fun, that I stood up for my suggestion with some spirit. It may be that, underlying my evil counsels, there was a confidence in John's invulnerability which caused the rôle of tempter to sit lightly upon my conscience. At any rate, I said, with that dignity with which, under certain circumstances, even a worm will turn: "I fail to see that I have said anything to be ashamed of, John Brunt, and I'll thank you to treat my suggestions a little less cavalierly."

Then, thinking I had vindicated my claims to respect, I went on, more pleasantly: "Come, John, let us talk the thing over sensibly. Here is this young lady, evidently a clever, wide-awake person, stranded in that heathenish West of ours, with probably not the shadow of intellectual stimulus or congenial companionship."

As I talked, each statement that I made was so convincing to myself that I seemed to come rapidly into possession of facts on the subject hitherto unknown to me.

"I really don't suppose, John, that she has a being to speak to but that old crank of an aunt, with her family trees and malachite ear-rings."

"She has but one of the ear-rings, Dicky."

"Oh! she has got the other one on the brain, which amounts to the same thing," said I, for I had no idea of being so easily put down.

"Go ahead!" said John. "Go ahead! Only I can't help wondering where you learned so much about the family."

"My dear boy," I answered, quite condescendingly, "I am blessed with average intelligence—that is all. Now, here is this poor girl, without a single interest in life, utterly cut off from the great world which is teeming with—"

"Hold on!" cried John. "You seem to forget that she has read Spoils. She can't starve on that."

"Yes, and evidently it has been an epoch in her life," I hastened to say. "Then think how much more inspiring would be a correspondence with the author of this Great Work." I found myself speaking in capital letters. But John did not seem particularly impressed.

"And so you would advise me to pass myself off for a woman in a correspondence with a young lady?"

"And why not? She is not likely to unbosom herself to a total stranger, man or woman. She won'ttalk of her private affairs in such letters. And, afterall, when it comes to the point, you area gentleman, a man of the world, and a great author. You will be giving her gold when she is looking for silver. There is no robbery in that."

Anybody else would have been rather struck by my metaphor. I was myself. But, bless you, Brunt doesn't care anything about metaphors. He can reel them off by the yard. Why, in his essay on "Small Change" in the Wherewithal Series, they're as thick as spatters. The very title is a metaphor, and he does not make any more of them than a carpenter does of shavings.

I talked on in this strain for some time, till at last John burst out with a fine display of impatience.

"Don't talk bosh any more, Dick. I'm going to write my answer and be done with it. Come, get out of that!" With which he coolly turned me out of my own chair, and sat down at my desk, where he immediately fell to scratching away for dear life.

"I hope the other Lilian has better manners than you," I remarked, but I am afraid it was lost upon him.

Before he got through the rascal had torn up three or four sheets of my best Crane's Distaff note-paper, to which he was helping himself, with admirable assurance. Not that I minded the paper, though writing paper does happen to be my pet economy. I suppose everybody has one. John's, by the way, is matches. But it was so unusual to see John make a mess of a letter that it amused me.

At last he wheeled around and held out the following specimen of epistolary art:

"My Dear Miss Lamb:

"Your kind and cousinly letter is just at hand, and it is with genuine regret that I find myself obliged to disclaim a relationship which I should be proud to own. I fear your aunt Mrs. Ellerton will think me the most unprincipled of women when I confess that the name which graces the title-page of my book is only a nom-de-plume, selected on account of its smooth and flowing qualities. It had not occurred to me that a signature chosen and combined for purely zesthetic reasons, might already exist, as a family name, and I can only offer my sincere apologies to you for the liberty I have unwittingly taken. Meanwhile I cannot wholly regret a misunderstanding to which I owe the welcome assurance that my book has pleased you. Unknown to me as you are, your letter convinces me that you are one whose approval I should value.

"Allow me to add, that, as it is my earnest wish to preserve a complete incognito, my publishers themselves not being aware that my name is assumed, I shall rely upon your betraying only to your aunt, the fact that I am sailing under false colors.

"Under which circumstances, it is with unfeigned contrition that I continue to sign myself,

"Though most sincerely yours,

"Lilian Leslie Lamb."

"How's that?" asked John, who had been drumming the table during my thoughtful perusal of the letter.

"I should think that would settle the matter," said I.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think you will hear from them again."

"It doesn't sound rude, I hope."

"Rude! Quite the contrary. In fact I think it sounds a little chivalrous for a woman. But they won't suspect anything. And anyhow you certainly have not left the sign of an opening for another letter."

"How about the handwriting?"

"That smallish literary hand hasn't any gender. Besides, I don't know whether you meant to or not, but you've minced your writing out of all nature."

"That's so," said he. "But I did it without thinking."

He seemed somewhat depressed, but he sealed the letter—with my crest, by the way,—and after he had put it into the bag for the office boy to post, he cheered up and I supposed he would forget all about it.