'Dear Sir, —We have read the romance entitled "Glamour" which you have done us the honour to forward some time since. It is a work which appears to us to possess decided originality and merit, and which may be received with marked favour by the public, while it can hardly fail in any case to obtain a reception which will probably encourage its author to further efforts. Of course, there is a certain risk attending its reception which renders it impossible for us to offer such terms for a first book as may be legitimately demanded hereafter for a second production by the same pen. We will give you ...' (and here followed the terms, which struck Mark as fairly liberal for a first book by an unknown author). 'Should you accept our offer, will you do us the favour to call upon us here at your earliest convenience, when all preliminary matters can be discussed.'We are, &c.,'Chilton & Fladgate.'
'Dear Sir, —We have read the romance entitled "Glamour" which you have done us the honour to forward some time since. It is a work which appears to us to possess decided originality and merit, and which may be received with marked favour by the public, while it can hardly fail in any case to obtain a reception which will probably encourage its author to further efforts. Of course, there is a certain risk attending its reception which renders it impossible for us to offer such terms for a first book as may be legitimately demanded hereafter for a second production by the same pen. We will give you ...' (and here followed the terms, which struck Mark as fairly liberal for a first book by an unknown author). 'Should you accept our offer, will you do us the favour to call upon us here at your earliest convenience, when all preliminary matters can be discussed.
'We are, &c.,'Chilton & Fladgate.'
Mark ran hurriedly through this letter with a feeling, first of incredulous wonder, then of angry protest against the bull-headed manner in which Fortune had dealt out this favour.
Vincent had been saved the dreary delays, the disappointments and discouragements, which are the lot of most first books; he had won a hearing at once—and where was the use of it? no praise or fame among men could reach him now.
If he had been alive, Mark thought bitterly; if a letter like this would have rescued him from all he detested, and thrown open to him the one career for which he had any ambition, he might have waited for it long and vainly enough. But he began by being indifferent, and, if Fortune had required any other inducement to shower her gifts on him, his death had supplied it.
He chafed over this as he went up to the City, for there was another holiday-class that day at St. Peter's; he thought of it at intervals during the morning, and always resentfully. What increased his irritation above everything was the fact that the publishers evidently regardedhimas the author of the book, and he would have the distasteful task put upon him of enlightening them.
When the day's duties were over he found himself putting on his hat and coat in company with the Rev. Mr. Shelford, who was also in charge of one of the classes formed for the relief of parents and the performance of holiday work, and the two walked out together; Mark intending to call at once and explain his position to Messrs. Chilton & Fladgate.
'What are you going to do with yourself, Ashburn, now?' said Mr. Shelford in his abrupt way as they went along. 'Going to be a schoolmaster and live on thecrambe repetitaall your life, hey?'
'I don't know,' said Mark sullenly; 'very likely.'
'Take my advice (I'm old enough to offer it unasked); give yourself a chance while you can of a future which won't cramp and sour and wear you as this will. If you feel any interest in the boys——'
'Which I don't,' put in Mark.
'Exactly, which you don't—but if you did—I rememberIdid once, in some of 'em, and helped 'em on, and spoke to the headmaster about 'em, and so on. Well, they'll pass out of your class and look another way when they meet you afterwards. As for the dullards, they'll be always with you, like the poor, down at the bottom like a sediment, sir, and much too heavy to stir up! I can't manage 'em now, and my temper gets the better of me, God forgive me for it, and I say things I'm sorry for and that don't do me or them any good, and they laugh at me. But I've got my parish to look after; it's not a large one, but it acts as an antidote. You're not even in orders, so there's no help for youthatway; and the day will come when the strain gets too much for you, and you'll throw the whole thing up in disgust, and find yourself forced to go through the same thing somewhere else, or begin the world in some other capacity. Choose some line in which hard work and endurance for years will bring you in a more substantial reward than that.'
'Well,' said Mark, for whom this gloomy view of his prospects reflected his own forebodings, 'I am reading for the Bar. I went up for my call-examination the other day.'
'Ah, is that so? I'm glad to hear of it; a fine profession, sir; constant variety and excitement—for the pleader, that is to say' (Mr. Shelford shared the lay impression that pleading was a form of passionate appeal to judge and jurymen), 'and of course you would plead in court. The law has some handsome prizes in its disposal, too. But you should have an attorney or two to push you on, they say. Perhaps you can count on that?'
'I wish I could,' said Mark, 'but the fact is my ambition doesn't lie in a legal direction at all. I don't care very much about the Bar.'
'Do you care very much about anything? Does your ambition lie anywhere?'
'Not now; it did once—literature, you know; but that's all over.'
'I remember, to be sure. They rejected that Christmas piece of yours, didn't they? Well, if you've no genuine talent for it, the sooner you find it out the better for you. If you feel you've something inside of you that must out in chapters and volumes, it generally comes, and all the discouragement in the world won't keep it down. It's like those stories of demoniacal possession in the "Anatomy"—you know your Burton, I daresay? Some of the possessed brought "globes of hair" and "such-like baggage" out of themselves, but others "stones with inscriptions." If the demon gets too strong for you, try and produce a stone with a good readable inscription on it—not three globes of hair for the circulating libraries.'
'We shall see,' said Mark laughing. 'I must leave you here. I have an appointment with Chilton & Fladgate just by.'
'Ay, ay,' said the old gentleman, wagging his head; 'publishers, aren't they? Don't tell me your ambition's dead if it's taken you as far as that. But I won't ask any more questions. I shall hope to be able to congratulate you shortly. I won't keep you away from your publishers any longer.'
'They are not my publishers yet,' said Mark; 'they have made me some proposals, but I have not accepted them at present.'
He knew what a false impression this would leave with his companion, bare statement of fact as it was, but he made it deliberately, feeling almost as much flattered by the unconscious increase of consideration in the other's voice and manner as if there had been the slightest foundation for it.
They said good-bye, and the old clergyman went on and was swallowed up in the crowd, thinking as he went, 'Publishing, eh? a good firm, too. I don't think he could afford to do it at his own expense. Perhaps there's more ballast in him after all than I gave him credit for. I can't help liking the young fellow somehow, too. I should like to see him make a good start.'
Mark, having sent up his name by one of the clerks behind the imposing mahogany counters, was shown through various swinging glass doors into a waiting-room, where the magazines and books symmetrically arranged on the table gave a certain flavour of dentistry to the place.
Mark turned them over with a quite unreasonable nervousness, but the fact was he shrank from what he considered the humiliation of explaining that he was a mere agent; it occurred to him for the first time, too, that Holroyd's death might possibly complicate matters, and he felt a vague anger against his dead friend for leaving him in such a position.
The clerk returned with a message that Mr. Fladgate would be happy to see Mark at once, and so he followed upstairs and along passages with glimpses through open doors of rooms full of clerks and desks, until they came to a certain room into which Mark was shown—a small room with a considerable litter of large wicker trays filled with proofs, packets and rolls of manuscripts of all sizes, and piles of books and periodicals, in the midst of which Mr. Fladgate was sitting with his back to the light, which was admitted through windows of ground-glass.
He rose and came forward to meet Mark, and Mark saw a little reddish-haired and whiskered man, with quick eyes, and a curious perpendicular fold in the forehead above a short, blunt nose, a mobile mouth, and a pleasantly impulsive manner.
'How do you do, Mr. Beauchamp?' he said heartily, using thenom de plumewith an air of implied compliment; 'and so you've made up your mind to entrust yourself to us, have you? That's right. I don't think you'll find any reason to regret it, I don't indeed.'
Mark said he was sure of that.
'Well, now, as to the book,' continued Mr. Fladgate; 'I've had the pleasure of looking through it myself, as well as Mr. Blackshaw, our reader, and I must tell you that I agree with him in considering that you have written a very remarkable book. As we told you, youknow, it may or may not prove a pecuniary success, but, however that may be, my opinion of it will remain the same; it ought, in my judgment, to ensure you a certain standing at once—at once.'
Mark heard this with a pang of jealousy. Long before, he had dreamed of just such an interview, in which he should be addressed in some such manner—his dream was being fulfilled now with relentless mockery!
'But there is a risk,' said Mr. Fladgate, 'a decided risk, which brings me to the subject of terms. Are you satisfied with the offer we made to you? You see that a first book——'
'Excuse me for one moment,' said Mark desperately, 'I'm afraid you imagine that—thatIwrote the book?'
'That certainly was my impression,' said Mr. Fladgate, with a humorous light in his eye; 'the only address on the manuscript was yours, and I came to the not unnatural conclusion that Mr. Ashburn and Mr. Beauchamp were one and the same. Am I to understand that isnotthe case?'
'The book,' said Mark—what it cost him to say this,—'the book was written by a friend of mine, who went abroad some time ago.'
'Indeed? Well, we should prefer to treat with him in person, of course, if possible.'
'It isn't possible,' said Mark, 'my friend was lost at sea, but he asked me to represent him in this matter, and I believe I know his wishes.'
'I've no doubt of it; but you see, Mr.—Mr. Ashburn, this must be considered a little. I suppose you have some authority from him in writing, to satisfy us (merely as a matter of business) that we are dealing with the right person?'
'I have not indeed,' said Mark, 'my friend was very anxious to retain his incognito.'
'He must have been—very much so,' said Mr. Fladgate, coughing; 'well, perhaps you can bring me some writing of his to that effect? You may have it among your papers, eh?'
'No,' said Mark, 'my friend did not think it necessary to give me one—he was anxious to——'
'Oh, quite so—then you can procure me a line or two perhaps?'
'I told you that my friend was dead,' said Mark a little impatiently.
'Ah, so you did, to be sure, I forgot. I thought—but no matter. Well, Mr. Ashburn, if you can't say anything more than this—anything, you understand, which puts you in a position to treat with us, I'm afraid—I'mafraidI must ask time to think over this. If your friend is really dead, I suppose your authority is determined. Perhaps, however, his—ahem—anxiety to preserve his incognito has led him to allow this rumour of his death to be circulated?'
'I don't think that is likely,' said Mark, wondering at an undercurrent of meaning in the publisher's tone, a meaning which had nothing sinister in it, and yet seemed urging him to contradict himself for some reason.
'That is your last word, then?' said Mr. Fladgate, and there was a sharp inflection as of disappointment and irritation in his voice, and the fold in his forehead deepened.
'It must be,' said Mark, rising, 'I have kept you too long already.'
'If you reallymustgo,' said Mr. Fladgate, not using the words in their conventional sense of polite dismissal. 'But, Mr. Ashburn, are you quite sure that this interview might not be saved from coming to nothing, as it seems about to do? Might not a word or two from you set things right again? I don't wish to force you to tell me anything you would rather keep concealed—but really, this story you tell about a Mr. Vincent Beauchamp who is dead only ties our hands, you understand—ties our hands!'
'If so,' said Mark, uncomfortably, 'I can only say I am very sorry for it—I don't see how I can help it.'
He was beginning to feel that this business of Holroyd's had given him quite trouble enough.
'Now, Mr. Ashburn, as I said before, I should be thelast man to press you—but really, you know,really—this is a trifle absurd! I think you might be a little more frank with me, I do indeed. There is no reason why you should not trust me!'
Was this man tempting him, thought Mark. Could he be so anxious to bring out this book that he was actually trying to induce him to fabricate some story which would get over the difficulties that had arisen?
As a mere matter of fact, it may be almost unnecessary to mention that no such idea had occurred to worthy Mr. Fladgate, who, though he certainly was anxious to secure the book if he could, by any legitimate means, was anything but a publishing Mephistopheles. He had an object, however, in making this last appeal for confidence, as will appear immediately; but, innocent as it was, Mark's imagination conjured up a bland demon tempting him to some act of unspeakable perfidy; he trembled—but not with horror. 'What do you mean?' he stammered.
Mr. Fladgate gave a glance of keen amusement at the pale troubled face of the young man before him. 'What do I mean?' he repeated. 'Come, I've known sensitive women try to conceal their identity, and even their sex, from their own publishers; I've known men even persuade themselves they didn't care for notoriety—but such a determined instance of what I must take leave to call the literary ostrich I don't think I everdidmeet before! I never met a writer so desperately anxious to remain unknown that he would rather take his manuscript back than risk his secret with his own publisher. But don't you see that you have raised (I don't use the term in the least offensively) the mask, so to speak—you should have sent somebody else here to-day if you wished to keep me in the dark. I've not been in business all these years, Mr. Ashburn, without gaining a little experience. I think, Idothink, I am able to know an author when I see him—we are all liable to error, but I am very much mistaken if this Mr. Vincent Beauchamp (who was so unfortunately lost at sea) is not to be recovered alive by a little judicious dredging. Do thinkif you can't produce him; come, he's not in very deep water—bring him up, Mr. Ashburn, bring him up!'
'You make this very difficult for me,' said Mark, in a low voice; he knew now how greatly he had misjudged the man, who had spoken with such an innocent, amiable pride in his own surprising discernment; he also felt how easy and how safe it would be to take advantage of this misunderstanding, and what a new future it might open to him—but he was struggling still against the temptation so unconsciously held out to him.
'I might retort that, I think. Now, be reasonable, Mr. Ashburn. I assure you the writer, whoever he may be, has no cause to be ashamed of the book—the time will come when he will probably be willing enough to own it. Still, if he wishes to keep his real name secret, I tell him, through you, that he may surely be content to trust that to us. We have kept such secrets before—not very long, to be sure, as a general rule; but then that was because the authors usually relieved us from the trouble—the veil was never lifted by us.'
'I think you said,' began Mark, as if thinking aloud, 'that other works by—by the same author would be sure of acceptance?'
'I should be very glad to have an opportunity, in time, of producing another book by Mr. Vincent Beauchamp—but Mr. Beauchamp, as you explained, is unhappily no more. Perhaps these are earlier manuscripts of his?'
Mark had been seized with the desire of making one more attempt, in spite of his promise to his uncle, to launch those unhappy paper ships of his—'Sweet Bells Jangled' and 'One Fair Daughter.' For an instant it occurred to him that he might answer this last question in the affirmative; he had little doubt that if he did his books would meet with a very different reception from that of Messrs. Leadbitter and Gandy; still, that would only benefit Holroyd—not himself, and then he recollected, only just in time, that the difference in handwriting (which was very considerable) would betray him. He looked confused and said nothing.
Mr. Fladgate's patience began to tire. 'We don't seem to be making any way, do we?' he said, with rather affected pleasantry. 'I'm afraid I must ask you to come to a decision on this without any more delay. Here is the manuscript you sent us. If the real author is dead we are compelled to return it with much regret. If you can tell me anything which does away with the difficulty, this is the time to tell it. Of course you will do exactly as you please, but after what you have chosen to tell us we can hardly see our way, as I said, to treat with you without some further explanation. Come, Mr. Ashburn, am I to have it or not?'
'Give me a little time,' said Mark faintly, and the publisher, as he had expected, read the signs of wavering in his face, though it was not of the nature he believed it to be.
Mark sat down again and rested his chin on his hand, with his face turned away from the other's eyes. A conflict was going on within him such as he had never been called upon to fight before, and he had only a very few minutes allowed him to fight it.
Perhaps in these crises a man does not always arrange pros and cons to contend for him in the severely logical manner with which we find him doing it in print. The forces on the enemy's side can generally be induced to desert. All the advantages which would follow if he once allowed himself to humour the publisher's mistake were very prominently before Mark's mind—the dangers and difficulties kept in the background. He was incapable of considering the matter coolly; he felt an overmastering impulse upon him, and he had never trained himself to resist his impulses for very long. There was very little of logical balancing going on in his brain; it began to seem terribly, fatally easy to carry out this imposition. The fraud itself grew less ugly and more harmless every instant.
He saw his own books, so long kept out in the cold by ignorant prejudice, accepted on the strength of Holroyd's 'Glamour,' and, once fairly before the public, taking theforemost rank in triumph and rapidly eclipsing their forerunner. He would be appreciated at last, delivered from the life he hated, able to lead the existence he longed for. All he wanted was a hearing; there seemed no other way to obtain it; he had no time to lose. How could it injure Holroyd? He had not cared for fame in life; would he miss it after his death? The publishers might be mistaken; the book might be unnoticed altogether;hemight prove to be the injured person.
But, as Mr. Fladgate seemed convinced of its merit, as he would evidently take anything alleged to come from the same source without a very severe scrutiny, there was nothing for it but to risk this contingency.
Mark was convinced that publishers were influenced entirely by unreasoning prejudices; he thoroughly believed that his works would carry all before them if any firm could once overcome their repugnance to his powerful originality, and here was one firm at least prepared to lay that aside at a word from him. Why should he let it go unsaid?
The money transactions caused him the most hesitation. If he took money for another man's work, there was a name, and a very ugly name, for that. But he wouldnotkeep it. As soon as he learnt the names of Holroyd's legal representatives, whoever they might be, he would pay the money over to them without mentioning the exact manner in which it had become due. In time, when he had achieved a reputation for himself, he could give back the name he had borrowed for a time—at least he told himself he could do so.
He stood in no danger of detection, or, if he did, it was very slight. Vincent was not the man to confide in more than one person; he had owned as much. He had been reticent enough to conceal his real surname from his publishers, and now he could never reveal the truth.
All this rushed through his mind in a hurried, confused form; all his little vanities and harmless affectations and encouragements of false impressions had made him the less capable of resisting now.
'Well?' said Mr. Fladgate at last.
Mark's heart beat fast. He turned round and faced the publisher. 'I suppose I had better trust you,' he said awkwardly, and with a sort of shamefaced constraint that was admirably in keeping with his confession, though not artificial.
'I think so. Then you are the man—this book "Glamour"'s your own work?'
'If you must have it—yes,' said Mark desperately.
The words were spoken now, and for good or ill he must abide by them henceforth to the end.
NO sooner had Mark declared himself the author of his dead friend's book than he would have given anything to recall his words, not so much from conscience (though he did feel he had suddenly developed into a surprisingly finished scoundrel), as from a fear that his lie might after all be detected. He sat staring stupidly at Mr. Fladgate, who patted him on the shoulder with well-meant encouragement; he had never seen quite so coy an author before. 'I'm very glad to make Mr. Vincent Beauchamp's acquaintance—at last,' he said, beaming with honest pride at the success of his tactics, 'and now we can come to terms again.'
He did not find Mark more difficult to deal with than most budding authors, and in this case Mark was morbidly anxious to get the money part of the transaction over as soon as possible; he could not decide whether his conscience would be better or worse satisfied if he insisted on the best pecuniary terms he could obtain, so in his indecision he took the easier course of agreeing to everything.
'About the title now?' said Mr. Fladgate, when theterms had been reduced to a formal memorandum. 'I don't think I quite like your present one; too moonshiny, eh?'
Mark owned that it did sound a little moonshiny.
'I think, too, I rather think, there's something very like it out already, and that may lead to unpleasantness, you know. Now, can you suggest something else which will give a general idea of the nature of the book?'
As Mark had absolutely no idea what the book was about, he could not.
'Well, Mr. Blackshaw suggested something like "Enchantment," or "Witchery."'
'I don't care about either of those,' said Mark, who found this sort of dissembling unexpectedly easy.
'No,' said Mr. Fladgate, 'No. I think you're right. Now, I had a notion—I don't know what you will think of it—but I thought you might call it "A Modern Merlin," eh?'
'"A Modern Merlin,"' repeated Mark thoughtfully.
'Yes, it's notquitethe right thing, perhaps, but it's taking, I think, taking.'
Mark said it was taking.
'Of courseyourhero is not exactly a magician, but it brings in the "Vivien" part of the story, don't you see?' Of course Mark did not see, but he thought it best to agree. 'Well,' continued Mr. Fladgate, who was secretly rather proud of his title, 'how does it strike you now? it seems to me as good a title as we are likely to hit upon.'
After all, Mark thought, what did it matter? it wasn't his book, except in name. 'I think it's excellent,' he said, 'excellent; and, by the way, Mr. Fladgate,' he added, 'I should like to change thenom de plume: it's a whim of mine, perhaps, but there's another I've been thinking lately I should like better.'
'By all means,' said the other, taking up a pencil to make the necessary alteration on the manuscript, 'but why not use your real name? I prophesy you'll be proud of that book some day; think over it.'
'No,' said Mark, 'I don't wish my real name to appear just yet' (he hardly knew why; perhaps a lingering sense of shame held him back from this more open dishonesty). 'Will you strike out "Vincent Beauchamp," and put in "Cyril Ernstone," please?' For 'Cyril Ernstone' had been the pseudonym which he had chosen long ago for himself, and he wished to be able to use it now, since he must not use his own.
'Very well, then, we may consider that settled. We think of bringing out the book as soon as possible, without waiting for the spring season; it will go to press at once and we will send you the proofs as soon as we get them in.'
'There's one thing, perhaps, I'd better mention,' said Mark suddenly; after he had turned to go a new danger had occurred to him, 'the handwriting of the manuscript is not mine. I—I thought it as well to tell you that beforehand; it might lead to mistakes. I had it copied out for me by—by a friend.'
Mr. Fladgate burst out laughing. 'Pardon me,' he said, when he had finished, 'but really I couldn't help it, you do seem to have been so bent on hoodwinking us.'
'And yet you have found me out, you see,' said Mark, with a very unmirthful smile.
Mr. Fladgate smiled, too, making a little gesture of his hand, thinking very possibly that few precautions could be proof against his sagacity, and they parted.
Mark went down the stairs and through the clerks' room into the street, with a dazed and rather awestruck feeling upon him. He hardly realised the treachery he had been guilty of, the temptation had burst upon him so suddenly, his fall had been made so easy for him, that he scarcely felt his dishonour, nor was he likely to feel it very keenly so long as only good results should flow from it. But he was vaguely conscious that he was not the same Mark Ashburn who had parted from old Shelford not an hour ago in the street there; he was a man with a new hope in his breast, and it might be a new fear, but the hope was near and bright, the fear shadowy and remote asyet: he had only to keep his own counsel and be patient for a while, and the course of events would assuredly bring him the stake he had played so high for.
At home that evening he took down his manuscript novels (which of course he hadnotburnt) and read them again carefully. Yes; there was power in them, he felt it, a copious flow of words, sparkling wit, and melting pathos. The white heat at which the lines were written surprised even himself. It was humiliating to think that without the subterfuge that had been forced upon him he might have found it impossible to find publishers who would appreciate these merits, for after Messrs. Leadbitter & Gandy's refusal he had recognised this to the full; but now, at least, they were insured against any such fate. A careful reading was absolutely necessary to a proper estimation of them, and a careful reading they had never had as yet, and would receive at last, or, if they did not, it would only be because the reputation he had appropriated would procure them a ready acceptance without any such preliminary ordeal. The great point gained was that they would be published, and after that he feared nothing.
If anything whispered to him that he might have accomplished even this by honourable means; that in time and with economy he could have produced them at his own expense; that perhaps a little more perseverance might even have discovered a firm with sufficient faith to take the risk upon themselves; if these doubts suggested themselves to him he had little difficulty in arguing them down. They might have had some weight once, but they came too late; the thing was done now and could never be recalled; his whole interest lay in persuading himself that what he had done was the only thing that could be done, unless he was content to resign his ambition for ever, and Mark succeeded in persuading himself of this.
Very soon his chief feeling was one of impatience for Holroyd's book to come out and make way for his own: then any self-reproach he might still feel would be drowned in a sense of triumph which would justify themeans he had taken; so he waited eagerly for the arrival of the first proofs.
They arrived at last. As he came back one evening to Malakoff Terrace, Trixie ran to meet him, holding up two tightly rolled parcels, with a great curiosity in her eyes. 'They came this afternoon,' she whispered, 'and oh, Mark, I couldn't help it; I tore one end a little and peeped; are they really part of a book—is ityours?'
Mark thought he had better accustom himself to this kind of thing as early as possible. 'Yes, Trixie,' he said, 'they're the first proofs of my book.'
'O-oh!' cried Trixie, with a gasp of delight, 'not "Sweet Bells Jangled," Mark?'
'No,not"Sweet Bells Jangled," it—it's a book you don't know about—a little thing I don't expect very much from, but my publishers seem to like it, and I can follow it up with the "Bells" afterwards.'
He was turning over the rough greyish pages as he spoke, and Trixie was peeping greedily at them, too, with her pretty chin dug into his shoulder.
'And did you really write all that?' she said; 'how interesting it looks, you clever boy! Youmighthave told me you were doing it, though. What's it about?'
'How can I tell you before I know myself,' said Mark, quite forgetting himself in his impatience. 'I—I mean, Trixie, that I can't correct these proofs as they ought to be corrected while you stay here chattering.'
'I'll go in a minute, Mark; but you won't have time to correct them before dinner, you know. When did you write it?'
'Whatdoesit matter when I wrote it!' said Mark irritably; 'if it hadn't been written the proofs wouldn't be here, would they? Is there anything else you would like to know—howI wrote it, where I wrote it, why I wrote it? You seem to think it a most extraordinary thing that anything I write should be printed at all, Trixie.'
'I don't know why you should speak like that, Mark,' said Trixie, rather hurt; 'you know a little while ago younever expected such a thing yourself. I can't help wanting to know all I can about it. Whatwillyou say to Uncle Solomon?' she added, with a little quiver of laughter in her voice. 'You promised him to give up literature, you know.'
'Don't you remember the Arab gentleman in the poem?' said Mark lightly. 'He agreed to sell his steed, but when the time came it didn't come off—he didn't come off, either—he"flung them back their gold," and rode away. I shall fling Uncle Solomon backhisgold, metaphorically, and gallop off on my Pegasus.'
'Ma won't like that,' prophesied Trixie, shaking her head wisely.
'No; mother objects to that kind of horse-exercise, and, ahem, Trixie, it might be as well to say nothing about it to any of them just at present. There will only be a fuss about it, and I can't stand that.'
Trixie promised silence. 'I'm so glad about it, though, you can't think, Mark,' she said; 'and this isn't one of yourgreatbooks, either, you said, didn't you?'
'No,' said Mark; 'it's not one ofthem. I haven't put my best work into it.'
'You put your best work into the two that came back, didn't you?' asked Trixie naively. 'But they won't come back any more, will they? They'll be glad of them if this is a success.'
'Fladgate will be glad of them, I fancy, in any case. I've got a chance at last, Trixie. A chance at last!'
Later that night he locked himself in the room which he used as a sitting-room and bedroom combined, and set himself, not without repugnance, to go steadily through the proofs, and make the acquaintance of the work he had made his own.
Much has been said of the delight with which an author reads his first proofs, and possibly the sensation is a wholly pleasurable one to some; to others it is not without its drawbacks. Ideas that seemed vivid and bright enough when they were penned have a bald tame look in the new form in which they come back. The writer finds himselfjudging the work as a stranger's, and forming the worst opinions of it. He sees hideous gaps and crudities beyond all power of correction, and for the first time, perhaps, since he learned that his manuscript was accepted, his self-doubts return to him.
But Mark's feelings were much more complicated than this; all the gratified pride of an author was naturally denied to him, and it was thoroughly distasteful to him to carry out his scheme of deception by such sordid details as the necessary corrections of printers' errors.
But he was anxiously eager to find out what kind of a literary bantling was this which he had fathered so fraudulently; he had claimed it in blind reliance on the publisher's evident enthusiasm—had he made a mistake after all? What if it proved something which could do him no credit whatever—a trap into which his ambition had led him! The thought that this might be so made him very uneasy. Poor Holroyd, he thought, was a very good fellow—an excellent fellow, but not exactly the man to write a book of extraordinary merit—clever, perhaps, but clever in an unobtrusive way—and Mark's tendency was to judge, as he expected to be judged himself, by outsides.
With these misgivings crowded upon him, he sat down to read the opening chapters; he was not likely to be much overcome by admiration in any case, for his habitual attitude in studying even the greatest works was critical, as he felt the presence of eccentricities or shortcomings which he himself would have avoided.
But at least, as he read on, his greatest anxiety was set at rest—if he could judge by the instalment before him, and the book was not in any danger of coming absolutely to grief—it would do his reputation no harm. It was not, to be sure, the sort of book he would have written himself, as he affected the cynical mode of treatment and the indiscriminate satire which a rather young writer feels instinctively that the world expects from him. Still, it was not so bad. It was slightly dreamy and mystical in parts, the work of a man who had lived more amongst books than in the world, but some of the passages glowed with the richimagery of a true poet, and here and there were indications of a quiet and cultivated humour which would recommend itself to all who do not consider the humorous element in literature as uncanny, if not personally offensive. The situations were strong, too, and as nearly new as situations can be and retain any probability in this over-plagiarised world; and at least one of the characters was obviously studied from life with a true and tender observation.
All of this Mark did not see, nor was he capable of seeing, but he thought that, with a little 'weeding' and 'writing-up,' the book would do, and set himself to supply what was wanting with a laudable self-devotion. His general plan of accomplishing this may be described here once for all.
He freshened up chapters with touches of satire, and gave them a more scholarly air by liberal allusions to the classics; he rewrote some of the more descriptive and romantic passages, putting his finest and most florid epithets into them with what he felt was very like disinterestedness, and a reckless waste of good material. And he cut down the dialogue in places, or gave it a more colloquial turn, so as to suit the tastes of the average reader, and he worked up some of the crises which struck him as inadequately treated.
After that he felt much easier; either considering that these improvements constituted a sort of atonement, or that they removed any chance of failure. As this book was to go forth and herald his own, it was vitally important that it should make as imposing an appearance as possible.
ONE afternoon, early in the year, Mark had betaken himself to the 'Cock,' where he was to lunch with his uncle by appointment before going with him to the steward'soffice of his Inn to pay his fees for the privilege of being called to the Bar. For Mark had duly presented himself for the not very searching ordeal by which the public is guaranteed against the incompetence of practitioners, and, rather to his own surprise, had not been required to try again. 'Call night' was announced in the windows of the law wig-makers, and Uncle Solomon, in high delight, resolved that his nephew should join the next batch of barristers, had appointed this day for choosing the wig and gown and settling all other preliminaries—he had been so much pleased, in fact, as to inclose a handsome cheque in the letter which conveyed his desires.
So Mark waited by the hoardings of the New Law Courts, until his relative should join him. Mark was not at ease—he was nerving himself to make a statement which he felt would come upon his uncle as a far from gratifying surprise—he had put it off from time to time, out of weakness, or, as he had told himself, from diplomacy. Now he could do so no longer. Uncle Solomon had hinted terrible things in his letter of a certain brief with which his own solicitor was to entrust the brand-new barrister the morning after his call! But for this, Mark might have let things drift, as he would strongly have preferred to do, but this threat of immediate employment drove him to declare himself. He firmly believed that his true vocation was the one he had secured at such cost to his self-respect; he was willing enough to bear the title of barrister, but he had no intention of devoting himself seriously to the profession; he saw little more attraction in the Bar than in teaching, and the most self-confident man might have recoiled at having work thrust into his hands before he had undergone the slightest practical training for conducting it. And Mark's imagination saw his first brief bringing others in its train, until he should sink in a sea of blue foolscap, helpless and entangled in clinging tentacles of red-tape. Perhaps this was a groundless alarm, but he had planned out a particular career for himself, a career of going about and observing (and it is well known that what a man of genius calls 'observing' is uncommonly like ordinary people'senjoyment), being famous and flattered, and sitting down in moments of inspiration to compose with a clear head and a mind unhampered by all other considerations. Now the responsibility of legal workwouldhamper him—he felt his muse to be of that jealous disposition which will suffer no rival—if he meant to be free at all, he must strike the blow at once. And so, as has been said, he was not at his ease.
Mr. Lightowler appeared as St. Clement Danes struck half-past one; he was in high good-humour, jubilant, and ruddy. 'Well, Master Barrister,' he said, chuckling; 'to think o' my living to see you figurin' about in a wig and gown—you must cut off that moustache of yours, though, Mark: none of the young barrister fellows I see goin' up in the train of a mornin' wear 'em. I'm told the judges don't consider too much 'air respectful, hey? Well, s'pose we go in and have a bit of something, eh? The "Cock" is it? Ah, I haven't been in here—I haven't been in here not since I was a young man "on the road," as we used to call it. I don't mean I was ever in the Dick Turpin line, but a commercial gentleman, you know. Well, I've made my way since. You'll have to make yours, with more help than I ever had, though.'
Mark led the way up a steep little passage and into the well-known room, with its boxes darkened by age, its saw-dusted floor and quaint carved Jacobean mantelpiece. He chose a compartment well down at the bottom of the room.
'What's your partickler preference, eh?' said Uncle Solomon, rather as if he was treating a schoolboy. 'What's their speciality 'ere, now? Well, you can give me,' he added to the waiter, with the manner of a man conferring a particular favour, 'you can give me a chump chop, underdone, and a sausage. And bring this young gentleman the same. I don't care about anything 'eavier at this time o' day,' he explained.
Mark talked on all kinds of topics with desperate brilliancy for some time; he wanted time before approachingthesubject.
Uncle Solomon broached it for him. 'You'll want a regler set o' chambers by-and-by,' he said; 'I've seen a room down Middle Temple Lane that'll do for you for the present. When the briefs begin to come in, we'll see about something better. I was talkin' about you to Ferret the other day,' he went on. 'It'll be all right; he's goin' to instruct their London agent to send you in a little something that you can try your 'prentice hand at directly. Isn'tthatbe'aving like an uncle to you, eh? I hope you will go and do me credit over it; that's the only way you can pay me back a little—I ask but that of you, Mark.'
For all his bumptiousness and despotism, there was a real kindness, possibly not of the purest and most unselfish order, but still kindness in his manner, and Mark felt a pang at having to reward it as he must.
The meal was over now, and Uncle Solomon was finishing the glass of whisky and water before him. 'Well,' he said, as he set it down, 'we'd better be off to the place where I'm to pay the fees for you. Ah, what you young fellows cost to start nowadays!'
'That's it,' said Mark; 'I—I would rather not cost you anything, uncle.'
'It's rather late in the day to be partickler about that,Ishould say.'
'It is. I feel that; but I mean, I don't want to cost you anymore.'
'What d'ye mean by that?'
'I mean that I don't care about being called to the Bar at present.'
'Don't you? Well, I do, so let that be enough for you. If I'm willing to pay, I don't see what you 'ave to say against it. Allyou'vegot to do is to work.'
'Uncle,' said Mark in a low voice, 'I must tell you what I feel about this. I—I don't want to cause you to spend your money on false pretences.'
'You'd better not: that's all I can tell you!'
'Precisely,' said Mark; 'so I'll be quite frank with you beforehand. If you set your mind on it, I will take my call to the Bar.'
'Willyer, though? That's very affable of you, now!'
'Yes, I will; but I shall never practise; if Ferret's agent sends me this brief, I shall decline it.'
'I would; that's the way to get on at the Bar; you're a sharp feller,youare!'
'I don't want to get on at the Bar. I don't mean to take it up; there, if you choose to be angry, I can't help it. I've told you.'
'Then may I take the liberty of inquirin''owyou purpose to live?' demanded Uncle Solomon.
'I mean to live by literature,' said Mark; 'I know I promised I wouldn't write any more: well, as far as that goes, I've kept my word; but—but a former book of mine has been accepted on very liberal terms, I see my way now to making a living by my pen, and though I'm sorry, of course, if it disappoints you, I mean to choose my life for myself, while I can.'
It must be highly annoying when one has, after infinite labour, succeeded in converting a clown, to see him come to chapel with a red-hot poker and his pockets full of stolen sausages; but even that shock is nothing to Uncle Solomon's.
He turned deadly pale and sank back in the box, glaring at Mark and opening his mouth once or twice with a fish-like action, but without speaking. When he could articulate, he called the waiter, giving Mark reason for a moment to fear that he was going to pour out his rage and disappointment into the ears of one of the smug and active attendants.
'Take for me and this young man, will yer?' was all he said, however. When the waiter had reckoned up the sum in the time-honoured manner and departed, Uncle Solomon turned and began to struggle into his great-coat. 'Let me help you,' said Mark, but Mr. Lightowler indignantly jerked himself away. 'I don't want to be helped into my coat by you,' he said; 'you've helped me into my grave by what you've done this day, you have; let that be sufficient for you!'
When he had rendered himself rather conspicuous byhis ineffectual attempts to put on the coat, and was reduced to accept the assistance of two waiters who shook him into it obsequiously, he came back to the box where Mark was sitting in a relieved but still vaguely uncomfortable frame of mind.
'I don't want to 'ave many words with you about this,' he began with a sternness that was not unimpressive. 'If I was to let myself out in 'ere, I should go too far. I'll only just tell you this much; this is the second time you've played me this trick, and it's the last! I warned you before that I should have done with you if you did it again: you'll 'ave no more chances like the last, so mind that. Take care of that cheque, you needn't fear I shall stop it, but you won't get many more out o' me. And now I'll bid you good-day, young gentleman; I'm goin' to Kensington, and then I shall do a little littery composing on my own account, since it's so pop'lar, and get Ferret to help me with it. I'm not one of your littery men, but I dessey I can compose something yet that'll be read some day with a good deal of interest; it won't be pleasant reading for you, though, I can tell yer!'
He went noisily out, the waiters staring after him and the people looking up from their boxes as he passed, and Mark was left to his own reflections, which were of a mixed order.
He had accomplished his main object—his slavery was over, and he felt an indescribable relief at the thought; still, he could not avoid the suspicion that his freedom might have been dearly purchased. His uncle's words had pointed to a state of things in which he would have benefited to a considerable extent under his will, and that was over now. Would it not have been worth while to endure a little longer—but Mark felt strongly that it would not. With such prospects as he now saw opening before him, the idea of submitting himself to an old man's ambitious whims for the sake of a reward which might, after all, be withheld at last was utterly revolting. He felt a certain excitement, too, at the idea of conquering the world single-handed.
When he left the 'Cock' he walked slowly and irresolutely down the Strand. 'If I go home now I shall findhimblustering there. I don't feel equal to any more of him just now,' he thought.
He had no club to go to at that time, so he went and read the papers, and drank coffee at a cigar divan until it was late enough to dine, and after dinner tried to drown his care by going to see one of those anomalous productions—a 'three-act burlesque'—at a neighbouring theatre, which he sat through with a growing gloom, in spite of the pretty faces and graceful dances which have now, with some rare exceptions, made plot and humour so unnecessary. Each leading member of the clever company danced his or her specialpas seulas if for a competitive examination, but left him unthrilled amidst all the enthusiasm that thundered from most parts of the house. It is true that there were faces there—and young men's faces—quite as solemn as his own, but then theirs was the solemnity of an enjoyment too deep for expression, while Mark's face was blank from a depression he could not shake off.
He went away at the end of the second act with a confused recollection of glowing groups of silk-clad figures, forming up into a tableau for no obvious dramatic reason, and, thinking it better to face his family before the morning, went straight home to Malakoff Terrace. He could not help a slight nervousness as he opened the gate and went up the narrow path of flagstones. The lower window was dark, but there were no lights in the upper rooms, so that he guessed that the family had not retired. Mrs. Ashburn was entirely opposed to the latch-key as a domestic implement, and had sternly refused to allow such a thing to pass her threshold, so that Mark refrained from making use of the key—which of course he had—in all cases where it was not absolutely necessary, and he knocked and rang now.
Trixie came to the door and let him in. 'They've sent Ann to bed,' she whispered, 'but ma and pa are sitting up for you.'
'Are they though?' said Mark grimly, as he hung up his hat.
'Yes,' said Trixie; 'come in here for a minute, Mark, while I tell you all about it. Uncle Solomon has been here this afternoon and stayed to dinner and he's been saying, oh, such dreadful things about you. Why weren't you here?'
'I thought I should enjoy my dinner more if I dined out,' said Mark. 'Well, and what's the end of it all, Trixie?'
'I'm sure I don't know what it will be. Uncle Solomon actually wanted me to come and live with him at Chigbourne, and said he would make it worth my while in the end, if I would promise not to have anything more to do with you.'
'Ah, and when are you going?' said Mark, with a cynicism that was only on the surface.
'When!' said Trixie indignantly, 'why, never. Horrid old man! As if I cared about his money! I told him what I thought about things, and I think I made him angrier. I hope so, I'm sure.'
'Did he make the same offer to Martha or Cuthbert?' asked Mark; 'and were they indignant too?'
'They weren't asked. I don't think Uncle Solomon cares about them much;you'rehis favourite, Mark.'
'Yes,I'mhis favourite,' said Mark; 'but I'm not proud, Trixie. Besides, I rather think all that is over now.'
Here the door of the next room opened, and Mrs. Ashburn's voice was heard saying, 'Trixie, tell your brother Mark that, if he is in a condition to be spoken to, his father and I have something to say to him at once.'
'Encouraging that,' said Mark. 'Well, Trixie, here goes. You'd better go to bed. I'm afraid we are going to have a scene in there.'
He went in with a rather overdone cheerfulness. 'Well, mother,' he began, attempting to kiss her, 'I didn't dine at home to-night because——'
'I know why you didn't dine at home,' she said. 'I wish for no kisses from you, Mark. We have seen your uncle.'
'So have I,' said Mark; 'I lunched with him.'
'It is useless to trifle now,' she said; 'we know all.'
'I assure you Ididlunch with him; we had chops,' said Mark, who sometimes found the bland and childlike manner very useful in these emergencies. It did not serve him then, however.
'How could you deceive your uncle in such a manner?' she resumed.
'I didn't. Iundeceived him.'
'You have disappointed all his plans for you; thrown up the Bar, your position at St. Peter's, all your prospects in life—and for what?'
'For fun, of course, mother. I don't know what I'm fit for or what I want; it's pure idiotic recklessness, isn't it?'
'It is; but don't talk to me in that ribald tone, Mark; I have enough to bear as it is. Once for all I ask you, Is it true what my brother tells me, that you have returned to the mire like the sow in the Scriptures; that you are going to let your name be connected with—with a novel, after all you have promised?'
'Quite true,' said Mark; 'I hope to be connected with many novels.'
'Mark,' said his mother, 'you know what I think about that. I implore you to pause while there's time still, before doing what you can never recall. It's not only from worldly motives that I ask it. Surely you can sacrifice a contemptible vanity to your duty towards your mother. I may be wrong in my prejudices, but still I have a right to expect you to regard them. I ask you once more to withdraw from this. Are you going to refuse me?'
Mrs. Ashburn's harsh tones carried a very genuine feeling and concern. She truly believed that the paths of fiction would lead to her son's spiritual as well as his material ruin, and Mark had sense enough torecognise the reality of this belief of hers, and drop the levity he had assumed for defensive purposes.
His father had, as usual, taken no part in the interview; he sat looking dolefully at the fire, as if anxious to remain neutral as long as possible; he had long been a mere suzerain, and, like some other suzerains, felt a very modified resentment at a rebellion against an authority that was only nominally his own.
So Mark addressed himself to his mother only. 'I'm sorry if it grieves you, mother,' he said, gently enough; 'but you really must let me go my own way in this—it is no use at all asking me to withdraw now.... I have gone too far.... Some day you will see that I was not so very foolish after all. I promise you that. Wouldn't you rather think of me as living the life I could be happy in—being famous, perhaps, even, some day—than dragging out my days in a school or slaving at a profession I can never care for? Of course you would! And a novel isn't such an awful thing, if you could only bring yourself to think so. You never will read one, you know, so you can't be a very impartial judge.'
Mrs. Ashburn read very little of any literature; what she did read being chiefly the sermons and biographies of Dissenting divines, and she had never felt any desire to stimulate her imagination by anything much more exciting, especially by accounts of things that never happened, and were consequently untruthful. Her extreme horror of fiction was a form of bigotry now almost extinct, but she had grown up in it and retained it in all the old Puritan vigour.
She showed no signs of being at all impressed by Mark's remonstrance; her eyes were severely cold, and her voice measured and loud as she replied, without looking at him.
'You won't make me change my opinion in the least, Mark, if you were to talk till daylight. If you set yourself against my wishes in this, we have quite made up our minds how to act, have we not, Matthew?'
'Yes, quite,' said Mr. Ashburn, uneasily, 'quite; butI hope, Mark, my boy, I hope you won't cross your mother in this, when you see how strongly she feels about it. I want to keep my children about me while I can; I don't wish anyone to go if it can be arranged—if it can be arranged.'
'Do you mean, mother, that if I don't do as Uncle Solomon and you wish, I am to go?' asked Mark.
'I do,' said his mother. 'I won't encourage any son of mine against my conscience and my principles. If you choose to live a life of frivolity and idleness, you shall not lead it under my roof; so you know what to expect if you persist in disobeying me—us, I mean.'
'I think I had better go,' said Mark; 'I don't quite see what enormity I have been guilty of, but if you look at things in that light, there is no more to be said. I have chosen my life, and I don't mean to go back from it. I will see about finding lodgings as soon as I can, and you shall not be troubled with me any longer than I can help.'
'Mark, don't be headstrong—don't let your passion get the better of you!' cried his mother, moved out of all her stoniness—for she had not quite expected this, believing that the amount of Mark's salary and his expenses made him practically dependent on her. She had forgotten his uncle's cheque, and did not believe in any serious profits to be gained from literature.
'I'm not in the least angry,' he said; 'I don't wish to go, if you wish me to stay, but if you meant what you said just now, I have no choice.'
His mother was much too proud to weaken her authority by retracting. She still hoped that he would yield if she remained firm, but yielding was out of the question with Mark then, and, besides, independence had its charms, though he would not have been the first to loosen the tie.
'Blame your wicked pride and selfishness, Mark, not your mother, who is only anxious for your good. Go, if you will, but don't dare to expect a blessing on your disobedience.'
'Do you say go, too, father?' said Mark.
'You hear what your mother says. What else can I say?' he answered feebly; 'it's very painful to me—all this—but you must take your own course.'
'I see I must,' said Mark, and left the room.
'You've been very hard with the boy, Jane,' said her husband, when they were alone, and she had sat for some time with a book open but unread before her; 'I really do think you've been very hard.'
'Do you want to encourage him against his mother?' she asked.
'No, no, you know I don't, Jane. Anything you think right—but I think you were hard.'
'If I was, it was for his good,' she said; 'I have done what I thought right, and we have sat up long enough. We can do no good by talking over it any more, Matthew. Perhaps Mark will think differently to-morrow.'
Trixie had been waiting for Mark in the adjoining room into which she beckoned him as he passed the door. 'How did it end?' she whispered. 'You were very quiet in there; is it settled?'
'Yes, it's settled,' he said, 'I'm to go, Trixie; I shall have to shift for myself. They won't have me here any longer!'
'Oh, Mark!' cried Trixie. 'Take me with you, do, it will be so horrid at home with only Martha and Cuthbert. You and I always got on together; let me come too!'
'I can't,' said Mark, 'not yet—by-and-by, perhaps, Trixie, when I'm a rich man, you know, we can manage it—just now I shall hardly be able to keep myself.'
'I'll work hard at my drawing and get into the Academy. I've begun features already, and I shall soon get into the antique—then we can be famous together, you know.'
'We shall see,' said Mark; 'and in the meantime, Trixie, I think we had better both go to bed.'
When he was alone again and had time to think over the day which had proved so eventful, he could not find it in him to regret what had happened. He had got rid ofUncle Solomon, he had cast off the wig and gown which were to him as the garb of slavery, and the petty restraints of his home life were gone as well; he had no sentimental feelings about his banishment, the bosom of his family had not been a very appreciative or sympathetic one, and he had always intended to go forth from it as soon as he could afford it.
If he had really committed the offence for which he was to be driven from home, he could have considered himself a most interesting martyr; he did his best to do so as it was, but not with complete success. Betraying a dead man's trust is scarcely heroic, and even Mark felt that dimly, and could not dwell on his ill-treatment as he would dearly like to have done.
But there was something exciting for him, notwithstanding, in the future; he was to go out into the world and shift for himself, and conquer; he would have a part, and it might be a difficult one, to play for a season; but after that he could resume his own character and take the place he meant to fill in the world, feeling at last that the applause he won was his by right.
Vincent Holroyd had been unselfish in life; Mark had always recognised that trait in his character, though the liking he had for the man had not been much the stronger on that account—if now Vincent could see any brief and fleeting fame which his book might gain used as the stepping-stone to his friend's advancement, surely, Mark told himself, he would scarcely grudge it.
But he hardly cared to justify to himself what he had done by any casuistry of this kind; he preferred to shut his eyes resolutely to the morality of the thing; he might have acted like the basest scoundrel, very likely he had. Still, no one did, no one need, suspect him. All he had to do was to make the best use of the advantage he had snatched; when he could feel that he had done that, then he would feel justified; meanwhile he must put up with a few natural twinges of conscience now and then, when he was not feeling well.
The next morning breakfast passed without anyreference to the scene of the night before; Martha and Cuthbert both knew of what had happened, but kept silence, and if Mrs. Ashburn had any hopes that Mark would recant, she was disappointed.
That evening he informed them that he had taken rooms, and should not remain at Malakoff Terrace for more than a few days longer; his announcement being met by a grim 'Very well, Mark, just as you please,' from his mother; and though her heart sank at his words, and her last hope of prevailing died away, she never returned to the charge in any way, recognising that it was useless.
When the day for his departure came, there were no scenes; even Trixie, who felt it most, was calm, for, after all, Mark would not be so very far away, he had said she might come and see him sometimes; the other two were civil, and cold, there being that curious latent antipathy between them and him which sometimes exists between members of a family.
Mr. Ashburn had mumbled his good-byes with a touch of emotion and even shame in his manner as he shuffled away to his office. 'I don't want you to feel we've cast you off,' he had said nervously. 'Your mother says rather more than she exactly feels at times; but it's better for you to go, my boy, better for all parties concerned. Only, if you find yourself in—in any difficulties, come back to us, or—that is,' he amended, 'write, or come to me at the office, that will be better, perhaps.'
But Mrs. Ashburn's last words were, 'Good-bye, Mark. I never thought to part with a son of mine in anger; we may never meet again, but you may live to be sorry for the grief you have caused your mother, when you stand one day over her grave.'
This would have been more impressive if Mrs. Ashburn had not been so much addicted to indulging in such doleful predictions on less adequate occasions that she had discounted much of the effect that properly belonged to them; even as it was, however, they cut Mark for the moment; he half offered to embrace his mother, but she made no response, and after waiting for a while, and findingthat she made no sign, he went out with a slight shrug of expostulation.
When he had left the room, she half rose as if to follow, but stopped half way irresolute, while the cab which he had engaged to take himself and his luggage to his new quarters drove off, and then she went upstairs and shut herself in her bedroom for half-an-hour, and the maid, who was 'doing the rooms' hard by, reported afterwards to the cook that she had 'heard missus takin' on awful in there, a-sobbin', and groanin', and prayin' she was, all together like, it quite upset her to 'ear it.'
There were no traces of emotion on her face, however, when she came down again, and only an additional shade of grimness in her voice and manner to tell of the half-hour's agony in which her mother's heart had warred against her pride and her principles.