“HELÉNA, we must send out the invitations this very afternoon for the new literary society. It must be done with great care, too. I wish this to be the most select club of the West.”

The speaker was Mrs. Helen Brunswick, who had just returned from Europe. She was a lady of considerable culture and taste, and, what was not an inconvenient addition, of wealth. Her husband, a good business man, had died—perhaps opportunely; for, though Mrs. Brunswick was polite to him, she told her bosom friends that “he was not poetical,” and, therefore, not a very congenial spirit. His wife was a teacher when he married her, poor, but of very good family, and his money was undoubtedly the chief attraction.

She had one child, whose name, for the sake of elegance, she always called HelÉna rather than Helen, and of whom she was very fond; but her one absorbing plan was to make her home a literary centre. She bought, on her return from Europe, an old-fashioned house,—a new one would have seemed vulgar to her Æsthetic taste,—and furnished it as nearly as possible like the houses of some celebrated persons which she had seen abroad. She revelled in old tapestries, and bronzes which looked as though they were made in the bronze age.

HelÉna sat down, note-book in hand, to make out a list of those who were to be honored members of the new association.

“Shall we invite Fanny Green, mamma?”

“Oh, no, dear! She is only a local poet, getting a few articles into the newspapers here and there. This society will not be established to help struggling newspaper writers or embryo artists. These will make their way somehow if they have talent, but the elegant ladies of Lakeville will not care to associate with such crude aspirants. We must take those from the very highest walks of life, those who enjoy art especially, and can prepare an essay on sculpture or Egyptian lore. The young artists and novelists are usually poor and hard workers, so they would have no time to look up these subjects, which require great research and the leisure that only a lady of wealth has.”

“But, mamma, it would so help the rising artists if their pictures could be brought before the society. They would be purchased, probably, for the elegant homes.”

“Oh, no! Most elegant ladies want a picture painted by a famous artist, so that when they speak of the work to a friend the talent will be seen at once.”

“Don’t they know talent when they see it, whether John Smith or Bougereau painted it?”

“Oh, dear, no, HelÉna! You must not ask too much of people. I don’t care to read a book unless a well-known name is on the title-page. I consider it a waste of time. As soon as a man has made his mark I am glad to read him.”

The rising artists and the rising editors and contributors were not invited to membership in the new organization. Thirty-five names were sent out.

“We must not have more than twenty-five in the circle, HelÉna, for large societies are never select. If there are but a few, and those very literary, they will praise each other and feel proud of the pleasure of belonging. There’s everything in knowing how to handle women. Let them think it is exclusive and there will be a great longing to join; and when they cannot be admitted, from the smallness of the number, the society will become the leading topic of the city. Each member, too, will be all the more interested if she takes her turn in writing an essay, and this would not be possible in a large society.”

“Why, mother, half of those whom you have named couldn’t write an essay!”

“Well, my child, they have some friend who can help them. Money always buys help, and usually of a very superior kind.”

The invitations were sent out, and in due time the elegant ladies arrived. They admired Mrs. Brunswick’s rugs, her choice bits of needlework from abroad, and especially her antique bronzes.

The first tribulation of the society was over the adoption of a name. The “Mutual Club” was suggested, but “club” seemed strong-minded to some of the ladies present, and was abandoned. One suggested the “Society for Intellectual Growth,” but this seemed to suggest labor, and it would not be best to suggest very much work to such a charming circle. Mrs. Brunswick herself suggested, after many others had spoken, that the “Twilight Hour” would be poetic and refining, and as the members would usually come late in the afternoon, or in the evening if some celebrity were invited, this name would cover all times and seasons, convey no impression of moral reforms, and frighten no husbands with the fear that their wives would become unsuited to pretty gowns by mental wear.

This name was voted a happy thought, and the plan proceeded. A committee on membership was suggested, only twenty having responded to the invitation, and five more could be admitted. One lady, the wife of a senator, must be secured at all hazards, and this committee were to wait upon her at once. Another lady had travelled nearly the world over, and had several millions in her own right, and must on no account be omitted. A third was selected for no especial reason except she had held herself above ordinary society, and the select had come to regard this as a sign of aristocracy. Real aristocracy is too quiet to attract much attention, but the unreal is very prevalent.

The desired number was made up, and the “Twilight Hour Society,” as was expected, became the talk of Lakeville. A Gentlemen’s Night was given occasionally, and those only were invited who were supposed to be poetic. There was a leaning toward the ministerial profession, and a few judges and doctors were permitted to enter the select circle. The time came when it was necessary to invite a celebrity. Mrs. Wentworth was talking the matter over with Mrs. Brunswick.

“I hear,” said the former lady, “that the author of the new book which has just appeared in Boston, “The Story of a Life,” is to be at Lakeville soon to visit a cousin. The book is selling rapidly. It is a delightful psychological story of a woman’s heart, I have heard, and the men are as eager to read it as the women. Mr. Smithnight, the author, has become famous suddenly, and all the young ladies are enthusiastic over him. He is quite young, and very delightful, they say.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Brunswick, “anything that comes from Boston is delightful! Society is very deep there. The people are always making a study of hidden things of the mind, while we at the West are so very practical over the bread and butter matters of life. Alas! how far we are drifting from the beautiful and the sublime! We must have Mr. Smithnight at our next reception, and make it as elegant as possible. How lovely those people are who write books!”

The cousin of Mr. Smithnight, who lived on a side street, and never would have been thought worthy to step into the Twilight Hour circle, was visited, and asked if a reception for Mr. Smithnight could possibly be arranged. The young Plato was glad to be shown off before the admiring gaze of the uncultured West, and readily consented to be present.

“HelÉna,” said Mrs. Brunswick, as they draped the mantel with smilax and lilies of the valley, “I have always hoped that you would marry an author. Perhaps in Mr. Smithnight you will find your ideal.”

“I hope he’s handsome, mamma, and not too conceited, as so many literary people are.”

“I think you misjudge literary people, dear. They must hold themselves aloof from general society, else they would not be considered so great. You know a writer across the water always seems greater to us than our own authors.”

The old-fashioned house of the Brunswicks was lighted, not so gorgeously as to seem loud, and fragrant flowers were in profusion. Very elegant people came in their choicest robes to pay allegiance to the new novelist. Had he been a poet, he must needs have waited till he was fifty for America to find out whether he had genius or no; had he been a scientist, he would not have won his fame till death probably; but having given the public a well-written book which sold, America at once pronounced him a genius. Without doubt there were wheels within wheels which procured its publication. Perhaps he was a cousin to some first-class novelist, or had a governor to recommend his work; for how are publishers to know when a thing will be a success? Nearly all the great books, like “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” and “Jane Eyre,” have been refused for months, and even years.

Mr. Smithnight was present to receive the homage of Lakeville. He had a fine, even commanding, presence: black hair, which lay lightly over his forehead, a stray lock drooping occasionally, which his white hand tossed back; expressive dark eyes; and a bland smile. He was evidently a good student of human nature, for, while he was egotistical,—successful men usually have a good opinion of themselves,—he had the tact to make every lady feel that the intellectual culture of Lakeville was something phenomenal. Mrs. Brunswick thanked him heartily for coming, coming from such a centre of knowledge as Boston, to stimulate the over-practical West. She wanted to enjoy his conversation at another time, when she and dear HelÉna could have him all to themselves. As he took his departure he held HelÉna’s hand somewhat tenderly, and begged the pleasure of frequent visits during his short stay at Lakeville.

“HelÉna,” said Mrs. Brunswick, after the guests had departed, “I think Mr. Smithnight the most charming celebrity we have ever had. Think how people will speak of it! I know of nothing so delightful as a salon for literary people. How many must envy me the rare pleasure of bringing together these appreciative people and these great people! You know some of our celebrities from other cities have been so dull and stupid, and read such non-understandable essays, that our ladies have not known what to say or do. I think some of the manuscripts must have lain in trunks for years. But Mr. Smithnight is so charming, so fresh and entertaining! I think he likes you, HelÉna, for I saw him bestowing very admiring glances upon you.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t trouble myself much about him. I liked him, though, well enough.”

“Oh, you must be very polite to him, my dear, for literary chances are so rare at the West! Think where such a man would place you.”

Mr. Smithnight’s stay at Lakeville grew from days into weeks, and finally into months. He was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Brunswick’s, and rumor whispered that he was to wed HelÉna. Mrs. Brunswick made him the lion of the city. She bought sundry copies of the “Story of a Life,” and placed them where they would receive glowing notices by the press, and be read by the most select of Lakeville society. She sent several copies abroad, telling the recipients that it was written by a special friend of HelÉna’s.

Mr. Smithnight had found no such encouraging aid in Boston. There a few mutual friends helped each other, but the outside world troubled itself little about the strugglers for fame. At last it was publicly announced that Mr. Smithnight and HelÉna were engaged. Some common-sense mothers wondered if he had the ability to earn a living, knowing that literature in general is not a paying business. Some wondered whether he was able to spend so much as he seemed to be doing weekly; but marrying a young lady well-to-do might be an effective way of meeting debts.

Mrs. Brunswick would have preferred that the young couple live with her, but HelÉna wished a house of her own, which was accordingly purchased. Mr. Smithnight, with his refined taste, helped in the selection of the furniture and the bridal trousseau, and did not hesitate to buy the best.

One afternoon, when the last articles had been purchased, a wild rumor was heard on the street that Mr. Smithnight had been seen driving out of town with a lady who was not HelÉna Brunswick; that many bills had been contracted in Mrs. Brunswick’s name and left unpaid; and that money had been obtained at the bank fraudulently by the departing celebrity.

Mrs. Brunswick was overwhelmed with the news. HelÉna was exceedingly annoyed, but in no wise heart-broken, because for years she had liked a poor young artist of the city, who was not thought high enough to be invited to the Twilight Hour Society.

The literary association finally disbanded. Mrs. Brunswick sold the old-fashioned home and moved to another city, holding no more receptions for celebrities. HelÉna married her poor artist, who rose to eminence in his profession.