But, alas, now came what Hector felt the last and final blow to the
possibility of farther endeavor in the way of literature!
The bank to which Hector had been introduced by his father, and in which
he had been employed ever since, had of late found it necessary to look
more closely to its outlay and reduce its expenses; therefore, believing
that Hector had abundance of other resources, its managers decided on
giving him notice first of all that they must in future deprive
themselves of the pleasure of his services. And this announcement came
at a time when Annie was already in no small difficulty to make the ends
of her expenditure meet those of her income. In fact, she had no longer
any income. For a considerable time she had, by the stinting of what had
before that seemed necessities, been making a shilling do the work of
eighteenpence, and now she knew nothing beyond, except to go without.
But how allow Hector to go without? He must die if she did! Already he
had begun to shrink in his clothes from lack of proper nourishment.
A rumor reaching him of a certain post as librarian, in the gift of an
old corporation, being vacant, Hector at once made application for it,
but only to receive the answer that Pegasus must not be put in harness:
poor Pegasus, on a false pretense of respect, must be kept out of the
shafts! His fat friends would not permit him to degrade himself earning
his bread by work he could have done very well; he must rather starve!
He tried for many posts, one after the other. Heavier and heavier fell
upon him each following disappointment. Annie had in her heart been
greatly disappointed that no prospect appeared of a child to sanctify
their union; but for that she had learned more than to console herself
with the reflection that at least there was no such heavenly visitor for
whose earthly sojourn to provide; and now how gladly would she have
labored for the child in the hope that such a joy and companionship
might lift him up out of his despondency! Then he would be able to enjoy
and assimilate the poor food she was able to get for him. It is true he
always seemed quite content; but, then, he would often, she believed,
pretend not to be hungry, and certainly ate less and less. Hitherto she
had fought with all her might against running in debt to the
tradespeople, for, more than all else, she feared debt. Now, at last,
however, her resolution was in danger of giving way, when, happily,
Hector bethought himself of his precious books; to what better use could
he put them than sell them to buy food–wherein the books he had written
had failed him? Parcel by parcel in a leather strap, he carried them to
the nearest secondhand bookseller, where he had so often bought; now he
wanted to sell, but, unhappily, he soon found that books, like many
other things, are worth much less to the seller than to the buyer, and
where Hector had calculated on pounds, only shillings were forthcoming.
Yet by their sale, notwithstanding, they managed to keep a little longer
out of debt.
And in these days Annie had at length finished her fair copy of Hector’s
last book, writing it out in her own lovelily legible hand–not such as
ladies in general count legible, because they can easily read it
themselves; she could do better than that, she could write so that
others could not fail to read. For Hector had always believed that the
acceptance of his first volume had been owing not a little to the fact
that he had written it out most legibly, and he held that what reveals
itself at once and without possibility of mistake may justly hope for a
better reception than what from the first moment annoys the reader with
a sense of ill-treatment. It is no wonder, he said, if such a manuscript
be at once tossed aside with an imprecation. Legibility is the first and
intelligibility the only other thing rendered due by the submission of a
manuscript to any publisher.
Hector spent a day or two in remodeling and modifying the passages
remarked upon by his wife and his friend, and then, with hope reviving
in both their hearts, the manuscript was sent in, acknowledged, and the
day appointed when an answer would be ready.
Upon a certain dark morning, therefore, in November, having nothing else
whatever to do, Hector set out in his much-worn Inverness cape to call
upon his former publisher in the City, with whom of late he had had no
communication. The weather was cold and damp, threatening rain. But
Hector was too much of a Scotchman to care about weather, and too full
of anxiety to mind either cold or wet. He had, indeed, almost always
felt gloomy weather exciting rather than depressing. For one thing, it
seemed, when he was indoors, to close him about with protection from
uncongenial interruption, leaving the freer his inventive faculty; and
now that he was abroad in it, and no inventive faculty left awake, it
seemed to clothe him with congenial sympathy, for the weather was just
the same inside him. And now, as he strode along with his eyes on the
ground, he scarcely saw any of the objects about him, but sought only
the heart of the City, where he hoped to find the publisher in his
office, ready to print his manuscript, and advance him a small sum in
anticipation of possible profit. So absorbed was he in thought
undefined, and so sunk in anxiety as to the answer he was about to
receive, that more than once he was nearly run over by the cart of some
reckless tradesman–seeming to him, in its over-taking suddenness, the
type of prophetic fate already at his heels.
At length, however, he arrived safe in the outer shop, where the books
of the firm were exposed to sight, in process of being subscribed for by
the trade. There a pert young man asked him to take a seat, while he
carried his name to the publisher, and there for some time he waited,
reading titles he found himself unable to lay hold of; and there, while
he waited, the threatened rain began, and, ere he was admitted to the
inner premises, such a black deluge came pouring down as, for blackness
at least, comes down nowhere save in London. With this accompaniment, he
was ushered at length into a dingy office, deep in the recesses of the
house, where a young man whom he saw for the first time had evidently,
while Hector waited in the shop, been glancing at the manuscript he had
left. Little as he could have read, however, it had been enough, aided
perhaps by the weather, to bring him to an unfavorable decision; his
rejection was precise and definite, leaving no room for Hector to say
anything, for he did not seem ever to have heard of him before. Hector
rose at once, gathered up his papers from the table where they lay
scattered, said “Good-morning,” and went out into the sooty rain.
Not knowing whitherward to point his foot, he stopped at the corner of
King William Street, close to the money-shops of the old Lombards, and
there stood still, in vain endeavor to realize the blow that had stunned
him. There he stood and stood, with bowed head, like an outcast beggar,
watching the rain that dropped black from the rim of his saturated hat.
Becoming suddenly conscious, however, that the few wayfarers glanced
somewhat curiously at him as they passed, he started to walk on, not
knowing whither, but trying to look as if he had a purpose somewhere
inside him, whereas he had still a question to settle–whether to buy a
bun, and, on the strength of that, walk home, or spend his few remaining
pence on an omnibus, as far as it would take him for the money, and walk
the rest of the way.
Then, suddenly, as if out of the depths of despair, arose in him an
assurance of help on the way to him, and with it a strength to look in
the face the worst that could befall him; he might at least starve in
patience. Therewith he drew himself up, crossed the street to the corner
of the Mansion House, and got into an omnibus waiting there.
If only he could creep into his grave and have done! Why should that
hostelry of refuge stand always shut? Surely he was but walking in his
own funeral! Were not the mourners already going about the street before
ever the silver cord was loosed or the golden bowl broken? Might he not
now at length feel at liberty to end the life he had ceased to value?
But there was Annie! He would go home to her; she would comfort
him–yes, she would die with him! There was no other escape; there was
no sign of coming deliverance. All was black within and around them.
That was the rain on the gravestones. He was in a hearse, on his way to
the churchyard. There the mourners were already gathered. They were
before him, waiting his arrival. No! He would go home to Annie! He would
not be a coward soldier! He would not kill himself to escape the enemy!
He would stand up to the Evil One, and take his blows without flinching.
He and his Annie would take them together, and fight to the last. Then,
if they must die, it was well, and would be better.
But alas! what if the obligation of a live soul went farther than this
life? What if a man was bound, by the fact that he lived, to live on,
and do everything possible to keep the life alive in him? There his
heart sank, and the depths of the sea covered it! Did God require of him
that, sooner than die, he should beg the food to keep him alive? Would
he be guilty of forsaking his post, if he but refused to ask, and waited
for Death? Was he bound to beg? If he was, he must begin at once by
refusing to accept the smallest credit! To all they must tell the truth
of their circumstances, and refuse aught but charity. But was there not
something yet he could try before begging? He had had a good education,
had both knowledge and the power of imparting it; this was still worth
money in the world’s market. And doubtless therein his friend could do
something for him.
Therewithal his new dread was gone; one possibility was yet left him in
store! To his wife he must go, and talk the thing over with her. He had
still, he believed, threepence in his pocket to pay for the omnibus.
It began to move; and then first, waking up, he saw that he had seated
himself between a poor woman and a little girl, evidently her daughter.
“I am very sorry to incommode you, ma’am,” he said apologetically to the
white-faced woman, whose little tartan shawl scarcely covered her
shoulders, painfully conscious of his dripping condition, as he took off
his hat, and laid it on the floor between his equally soaking feet. But,
instead of moving away from him to a drier position beyond, the woman,
with a feeble smile, moved closer up to him, saying to her daughter on
his other side:
“Sit closer to the gentleman, Jessie, and help to keep him warm. She’s
quite clean, sir,” she added. “We have plenty of water in our place, and
I gave her a bath myself this morning, because we were going to the
hospital to see my husband. He had a bad accident yesterday, but thank
God! not so bad as it might have been. I’m afraid you’re feeling very
cold, sir,” she added, for Hector had just given an involuntary shiver.
“My husband he’s a bricklayer,” she went on; “he has been in good work,
and I have a few shillings in hand, thank God! Times are sure to mend,
for they seldom turns out so bad as they looks.”
Involuntarily Hector’s hand moved to his trouser pocket, but dropped by
his side as he remembered the fare. She saw his movement, and broke into
a sad little laugh.
“Don’t mistake me, sir,” she resumed. “I told you true when I said I
wasn’t without money; and, before the pinch comes, wages, I dare say,
will show their color again. Besides, our week’s rent is paid. And he’s
in good quarters, poor fellow, though with a bad pain to keep him
company, I’m afraid”
“Where do you live?” asked Hector “But,” he went on, “why should I ask?
I am as poor as you–poorer, perhaps, for I have no trade to fall back
upon. But I have a good wife like you, and I don’t doubt she’ll think of
something.”
“Trust to that, sir! A good woman like I’m sure she is ‘ll be sure to
think of many a thing before she’ll give in. My husband, he was brought
up to religion, and he always says there’s one as know’s and don’t
forget.” But now the omnibus had reached the spot where Hector must
leave it. He got up, fumbling for his threepenny-piece, but failed to
find it.
“Don’t forget your hat, sir; it’ll come all right when it’s dry,” said
the woman, as she handed it to him. But he stood, the conductor waiting,
and seemed unable to take it from her: he could not find the little
coin!
“There, there, sir!” interposed the woman, as she made haste and handed
him three coppers; “I have plenty for both of us, and wish for your sake
it was a hundred times as much. Take it, sir,” she insisted, while
Hector yet hesitated and fumbled; “you won’t refuse such a small service
from another of God’s creatures! I mean it well.”
But the conductor, apparently affected with the same generosity, pushed
back the woman’s hand, saying, “No, no, ma’am, thank you! The gentleman
‘ll pay me another day.”
Hector pulled out an old silver watch, and offered it.
“I cannot be so sure about that,” he said. “Better take this: it’s of
little use to me now.”
“I’ll be damned if I do!” cried the conductor fiercely, and down he
jumped and stood ready to help Hector from the omnibus.
But his kindness was more than Hector could stand; he walked away,
unable to thank him.
“I wonder now,” muttered the conductor to himself when Hector was gone,
“if that was a put-up job between him and the woman? I don’t think so.
Anyhow, it’s no great loss to anybody. I won’t put it down; the company
‘ll have to cover that.”
Hector turned down a street that led westward, drying his eyes, and
winking hard to make them swallow the tears which sought to hide from
him a spectacle that was calling aloud to be seen. For lo! the
street-end was filled with the glory of a magnificent rainbow. All
across its opening stretched and stood the wide arch of a wonderful
rainbow. Hector could not see the sun; he saw only what it was making;
and the old story came back to him, how the men of ancient time took the
heavenly bow for a promise that there should no more be such a flood as
again to destroy the world. And therefore even now the poets called the
rainbow the bow of hope.
Nor, even in these days of question and unbelief, is it matter of wonder
that, at sight of the harmony of blended and mingling, yet always
individual, and never confused colors, and notwithstanding his knowledge
of optics, and of how the supreme unity of the light was secerned into
its decreed chord, the imaginative faith of the troubled poet should so
work in him as to lift his head for a moment above the waters of that
other flood that threatened to overwhelm his microcosm, and the bow
should seem to him a new promise, given to him then and individually, of
the faithfulness of an unseen Power of whom he had been assured, by one
whom he dared not doubt, that He numbered the very hairs of his head.
Once more his spirit rose upon the wave of a hope which he could neither
logically justify nor dare to refuse; for hope is hope whencesoever it
spring, and needs no justification of its self-existence or of its
sudden marvelous birth. The very hope was in itself enough for itself.
And now he was near his home; his Annie was waiting for him; and in
another instant his misery would be shared and comforted by her! He was
walking toward the wonder-sign in the heavens. But even as he walked
with it full in view, he saw it gradually fade and dissolve into the
sky, until not a thread of its loveliness remained to show where it had
spanned the infinite with its promise of good. And yet, was not the sky
itself a better thing, and the promise of a yet greater good? He must
walk onward yet, in tireless hope! And the resolve itself endured–or
fading, revived, and came again, and ever yet again.
For ere he had passed the few yards that lay between him and Annie yet
another wonder befell: as if the rainbow had condensed, and taken shape
as it melted away, there on the pathway, in the thickening twilight of
the swift-descending November night, stood a creature, surely not of the
night, but rather of the early morn, a lovely little child–whether
wandered from the open door of some neighboring house, or left by the
vanished rainbow, how was he to tell? Endeavoring afterward to recall
every point of her appearance, he could remember nothing of her feet, or
even of the frock she wore. Only her face remained to him, with its
cerulean eyes–the eyes of Annie, looking up from under the cloud of her
dark hair, which also was Annie’s. She looked then as she stood, in his
memory of her, as if she were saying, “I trust in you; will you not
trust in Him who made the rainbow?” For a moment he seemed to stand
regarding her, but even while he looked he must have forgotten that she
was there before him, for when again he knew that he saw her, though he
did not seem ever to have looked away from her, she had changed in the
gathering darkness to the phantasm of a daisy, which still gazed up in
his face trustingly, and, indeed, went with him to his own door, seeming
all the time to say, “It was no child; it was me you saw, and nothing
but me; only I saw the sun–I mean, the man that was making the
rainbow.” And never more could he in his mind separate the child, whom I
cannot but think he had verily seen, from the daisy which certainly he
had not seen, except in the atmosphere of his troubled and confused
soul.
It may help my reader to understand its confusion if I recall to him the
fact that Hector had that day eaten nothing. Nor must my wife reader
think hardly of Annie for having let him leave the house without any
food, for he had stolen softly away, and closed the door as softly
behind him, thinking how merrily they would eat together when he came
back with his good news. And now he was bringing nothing to her but the
story of a poor woman and her child who had warmed him, and of an
omnibus-conductor who had trusted him for his fare, and of a rainbow and
a child and a daisy.
“Oh, you naughty, naughty dear!” cried Annie, as she threw herself into
his arms, rejoicing. But at sight of his worn and pallid face the smile
faded from hers, and she thought, “What can have befallen him?”
His lip quivered, and, seeking with a watery smile to reassure her, he
gave way and burst into tears. Unmanly of him, no doubt, but what is a
man to do when he cannot help it? And where is a man to weep if not on
his wife’s bosom? Call this behavior un-English, if you will; for,
indeed, Hector was in many ways other than English, and, I protest,
English ways are not all human. But I will not allow that it manifested
any weakness, or necessarily involved shame to him; the best of men, and
the strongest–yea, the one Man whose soul harbored not an atom of
self-pity–upon one occasion wept, I think because he could not persuade
the women whom he loved and would fain console to take comfort in his
Father. Annie, for one reverent moment, turned her head aside, then
threw her arms about him, and hid her glowing face in his bosom.
“There’s only me in the house, dear,” she said, and led the way to their
room.
When they reached it, she closed the door, and turned to him.
“So they won’t take your story?” she said, assuming the fact, with a
sad, sunny smile.
“They refused it absolutely.”
“Well, never mind! I shall go out charing to-morrow. You have no notion
how strong I am. It is well for you I have never wanted to beat you.
Seriously, I believe I am much stronger than you have the least notion
of. There! Feel that arm–I should let you feel it another way, only I
am afraid of hurting you.”
She had turned up the sleeve of her dress, and uncovered a grandly
developed arm, white as milk, and blossoming in a large, splendidly
formed hand. Then playfully, but oh! so tenderly, with the under and
softest part of her arm she fondled his face, rubbing it over first one,
then the other cheek, and ended with both arms round his neck, her hands
folding his head to her bosom.
“Wife! wife!” faltered Hector, with difficulty controlling himself; “my
strong, beautiful wife! To think of your marrying me for this!”
“Hector,” answered Annie, drawing herself back with dignity, “do you
dare to pity me? That would be to insult me! As if I was not fit to be
your wife when doing _everything_ for my mother! There are
thousands of Scotch girls that would only be proud to take my place,
poor as you are–and you couldn’t be much poorer–and serve you, without
being your wife, as I have the honor and pride to be! But, my blessed
man, I do believe you have eaten nothing to-day; and here am I fancying
myself your wife, and letting you stand there empty, instead of
bestirring myself to get you some supper! What a shame! Why, you are
actually dying with hunger!” she cried, searching his face with pitiful
eyes.
“On the contrary, I am not in the least hungry,” protested Hector.
“Then you must be hungry at once, sir. I will go and bring you something
the very sight of which will make you hungry.”
“But you have no money, Annie; and, not being able to pay, we must go
without. Come, we will go to bed.” “Yes, I am ready; I had a good
breakfast. But you have had nothing all day. And for money, do you know
Miss Hamper, the dressmaker, actually offered to lend me a shilling, and
I took it. Here it is. You see, I was so sure you would bring money home
that I thought we _might_ run that much farther into debt. So I got
you two fresh eggs and such a lovely little white loaf. Besides, I have
just thought of something else we could get a little money for–that
dainty chemise my mother made for me with her own hands when we were
going to be married. I will take it to the pawnbroker to-morrow.”
“I was never in a pawnshop, Annie. I don’t think I should know how to
set about it.”
“_You!_” cried Annie, with a touch of scorn. “Do you think I would
trust a man with it? No; that’s a woman’s work. Why, you would let the
fellow offer you half it was worth–and you would take it too. I shall
show it to Mrs. Whitmore: _she_ will know what I ought to get for
it. She’s had to do the thing herself–too often, poor thing!”
“It would be like tearing my heart out.”
“What! to part with my pretty chemise. Hector, dear, you must not be
foolish! What does it matter, so long as we are not cheating anybody?
The pawnshop is a most honorable and useful institution. No one is the
worse for it, and many a one the better. Even the tradespeople will be a
trifle the better. I shall be quite proud to know that I have a
pawn-ticket in my pocket to fall back upon. Oh, there’s that old silk
dress your mother sent me–I do believe that would bring more. It is in
good condition, and looks quite respectable. If Eve had got into a
scrape like ours, she would have been helpless, poor thing, not having
anything _to put away_–that is the right word, I believe. There is
really nothing disgraceful about it. Come now, dear, and eat your
eggs–I’m afraid you must do without butter. I always preferred a piece
of dry bread with an egg–you get the true taste of the egg so much
better. One day or another we must part with everything. It is sure to
come. Sooner or later, what does that matter? ‘The readiness is all,’ as
Hamlet says. Death, or the pawnshop, signifies nothing. ‘Since no man
has aught of what he leaves, what is it to leave betimes?’ We do but
forestall the grave for one brief hour with the pawnshop.”
“You deserve to have married Epictetus, Annie, you brave woman, instead
of Xantippe!”
“I prefer you, Hector.”
“But what might you have said if he had asked you, and you had heard me
bemoaning the pawnshop?”
“Ah, then, indeed! But, in the meantime, we will go to bed and wait
there for to-morrow. Is it not a lovely thing to know that God is
thinking about you? He will bring us to _our desired haven,_
Hector, dearest!”
So in their sadness they laid them down. Annie opened her arms and took
Hector to her bosom. There he sighed himself to sleep; and God put His
arms about them both, and kept them asleep until the morning.
And in this love, more than in bed, I rest.
Annie was the first to spring up and begin to dress herself, pondering
in her mind as she did so whether to go first to the pawnbroker’s or to
the baker, to ask him to recommend her as a charwoman. She would tell
him just the truth–that she must in future work for her daily bread.
Then Hector rose and dressed himself.
“Oh, Annie!” he said, as he did so, “is it gone, that awful misery of
last night in the omnibus? It seemed, as I jolted along, as if God had
forgotten one of the creatures he had made, and that one was me; or,
worse, that he thought of me, and would not move to help me! And why do
I feel now as if He had help for me somewhere near waiting for me? I
think I will go and see a man who lives somewhere close by, and find out
if he is the same I used to know at St. Andrews; if he be the same, he
may know of something I could try for.”
“Do,” replied Annie. “I will go with you, and on the way call at the
grocer’s–I think he will be the best to ask if he knows of any family
that wants a charwoman or could give me any sort of work. There’s more
than one kind of thing I could turn my hand to–needle-work, for
instance. I could make a child’s frock as well, I believe, as a
second-rate dressmaker. Can you tell me who was the first tailor,
Hector? It was God himself. He made coats of skins for Adam and his
wife.”
“Quite right, dear. You may well try your hand–as I know you have done
many a time already. And, if I can get hold of ever so young a pupil, I
shall be glad even to teach him his letters. We must try anything and
everything. We are long past being fastidious, I hope.”
He turned and went on with his toilet.
“Oh, Hector,” said Annie suddenly, and walked to the mantelpiece, “I am
so sorry! Here is a letter that came for you yesterday. I did not care
to open it, though you have often told me to open any letters I pleased.
The fact is, I forgot all about it; I believe, because I was so unhappy
at your going away without breakfast. Or perhaps it was that I was
frightened at its black border. I really can’t tell now why I did not
open it.”
With little interest and less hope, Hector took the
letter,–black-bordered and black-sealed,–opened it, and glanced
carelessly at the signature, while Annie stood looking at him, in the
hope merely that he would find in it no fresh trouble–some forgotten
bill perhaps!
She saw his face change, and his eyes grow fixed. A moment more and the
letter dropped in the fender. He stood an instant, then fell on his
knees, and threw up his hands.
“What is it, darling?” she cried, beginning to tremble.
“Only five hundred pounds!” he answered, and burst into an hysterical
laugh.
“Impossible!” cried Annie.
“Who _can_ have played us such a cruel trick?” said Hector feebly.
“It’s no trick, Hector!” exclaimed Annie. “There’s nobody would have the
heart to do it. Let _me_ see the letter.”
She almost caught it from his hands as he picked it from the fender, and
looked at the signature.
“Hale & Hale?” she read. “I never heard of them!”
“No, nor anyone else, I dare say,” answered Hector.
“Let us see the address at the top,” said Annie.
“There it is–Philpot Lane.”
“Where is that? I don’t believe there is such a place!”
“Oh, yes, there is; I’ve seen it–somewhere in the City, I believe. But
let us read the letter. I saw only the figures. I confess I was foolish
enough at first to fancy somebody had sent us five hundred pounds!”
“And why not?” cried Annie. “I am sure there’s no one more in want of
it.”
“That’s just why not,” answered Hector. “Did you ever know a rich man
leave his money to a poor relation? Oh, I hope it does not mean that my
father is gone. He may have left us a trifle. Only he could not have had
so much to leave to anybody. I know he loved you, Annie.”
In the meantime Annie had been doing the one sensible thing–reading the
letter, and now she stood pondering it.
“I have it, Hector. He always uses good people to do his kindnesses.
Don’t you remember me telling you about the little old lady in Graham’s
shop the time your book came out?”
“Yes, Annie; I wasn’t likely to forget that; it was my love for you that
made me able to write the poem. Ah, but how soon was the twenty pounds I
got for it spent, though I thought it riches then!”
“So it was–and so it is!” cried Annie, half laughing, but crying
outright. “It’s just that same little old lady. She was so delighted
with the book, and with you for writing it, that she put you down at
once in her will for five hundred pounds, believing it would help people
to trust in God.”
“And here was I distrusting so much that I was nearly ready to kill
myself. Only I thought it would be such a terrible shock to you, my
precious! It would have been to tell God to his face that I knew he
would not help me. I am sure now that he is never forgetting, though he
seems to have forgotten. There was that letter lying in the dark through
all the hours of the long night, while we slept in the weariness of
sorrow and fear, not knowing what the light was bringing us. God is
good!”
“Let us go and see these people and make sure,” said Annie. “‘Hale and
Hearty,’ do they call themselves? But I’m going with you myself this
time! I’m not going to have such another day as I had yesterday–waiting
for you till the sun was down, and all was dark, you bad man!–and
fancying all manner of terrible things! I wonder–I wonder, if–”
“Well, what do you wonder, Annie?”
“Only whether, if now we were to find out it was indeed all a mistake, I
should yet be able to hope on through all the rest. I doubt it; I doubt
it! Oh, Hector, you have taught me everything!”
“More, it seems, than I have myself learned. Your mother had already
taught you far more than ever I had to give you!”
“But it is much too early yet, I fear, to call in the City,” said Annie.
“Don’t you think we should have time first to find out whether the
gentleman we were thinking of inquiring after to-day be your old college
friend or not? And I will call at the grocer’s, and tell him we hope to
settle his bill in a few days. Then you can come to me, and I will go to
you, and we shall meet somewhere between.”
They did as Annie propose; and before they met, Hector had found his
friend, and been heartily received both by him and by his young wife.
When at length they reached Philpot Lane, and were seated in an outer
room waiting for admission, Annie said: “Surely, if rich people knew how
some they do not know need their help, they would be a little more eager
to feather their wings ere they fly aloft by making friends with the
Mammon of unrighteousness. Don’t you think it may be sometimes that they
are afraid of doing harm with their money?”
“I’m afraid it is more that they never think what our Lord meant when he
said the words. But oh, Annie! is it a bad sign of me that the very
possibility of this money could make me so happy?”
They were admitted at length, and kindly received by a gray-haired old
man, who warned them not to fancy so much money would last them very
long.
“Indeed, sir,” answered Annie, “the best thing we expect from it is that
it will put my husband in good heart to begin another book.”
“Oh! your husband writes books, does he? Then I begin to understand my
late client’s will. It is just like her,” said the old gentleman. “Had
you known her long?”
“I never once saw her,” said Hector.
“But I did,” said Annie, “and I heard her say how delighted she was with
his first book. Please, sir,” she added, “will it be long before you can
let us have the money?”
“You shall have it by-and-by,” answered the lawyer; “all in good time.”
And now first they learned that not a penny of the money would they
receive before the end of a twelvemonth.
“Well, that will give us plenty of time to die first,” thought Hector,
“which I am sure the kind lady did not intend when she left us the
money.”
Another thing they learned was that, even then, they would not receive
the whole of the money left them, for seeing they could claim no
relation to the legator, ten per cent must be deducted from their
legacy. If they came to him in a year from the date of her death, he
told them he would have much pleasure in handing them the sum of four
hundred and fifty pounds.
So they left the office–not very exultant, for they were both rather
hungry, and had to go at once in search of work–with but a poor chance
of borrowing upon it.
Nevertheless, Hector broke the silence by saying:
“I declare, Annie, I feel so light and free already that I could invent
anything, even a fairy tale, and I feel as if it would be a lovely one.
I hope you have a penny left to buy a new bottle of ink. The ink at home
is so thick it takes three strokes to one mark.”
“Yes, dear, I have a penny; I have two, indeed–just twopence left. We
shall buy a bottle of ink with one, and–shall it be a bun with the
other? I think one penny bun will divide better than two halfpenny
ones.”
“Very well. Only, mind, _I’m_ to divide it. But, do you know, I’ve
been thinking,” said Hector, “whether we might not take a holiday on the
strength of our expectations, for we shall have so long to wait for the
money that I think we may truly say we have _great_ expectations.”
“I think we should do better,” answered Annie, “to go back to your old
friend, Mr. Gillespie, and tell him of our good-fortune, and see whether
he can suggest anything for us to do in the meantime.”
Hector agreed, and together they sought the terrace where Mr. and Mrs.
Gillespie lived, who were much interested in their story; and then first
they learned that the lady was at least well enough off to be able to
help them, and, when they left, she would have Annie take with her a
dozen of her handkerchiefs, to embroider with her initials and crest;
but Annie begged to be allowed to take only one, that Mrs. Gillespie
might first see how she liked her work.
“For, then, you see,” she said to her husband, as they went home, “I
shall be able to take it back to her this very evening and ask her for
the half-crown she offered me for doing it, which I should not have had
the face to do with eleven more of them still in my possession. I have
no doubt of her being satisfied with my work; and in a week I shall have
finished the half of them, and we shall be getting on swimmingly.”
Throughout the winter Hector wrote steadily every night, and every night
Annie sat by his side and embroidered–though her embroidery was not
_all_ for other people. Many a time in after years did their
thoughts go back to that period as the type of the happy life they were
having together.
The next time Hector went to see Mr. Gillespie, that gentleman suggested
that he should give a course of lectures to ladies upon English Poetry,
beginning with the Anglo-Saxon poets, of whom Gillespie said he knew
nothing, but would be glad to learn a great deal. He knew also, he said,
some ladies in the neighborhood willing to pay a guinea each for a
course of, say, half-a-dozen such lectures. They would not cost Hector
much time to prepare, and would at once bring in a little money.
Coleridge himself, he suggested, had done that kind of thing.
“Yes,” said Hector, “but he was Coleridge. I have nothing to say worth
saying.”
“Leave your hearers to judge of that,” returned Gillespie. “Do your
best, and take your chance. I promise you two pupils at least not
over-critical–my wife and myself. It is amazing how little those even
who imagine they love it know about English poetry.”
“But where should I find a room?” Hector still objected.
“Would not this drawing room do?” asked his friend.
“Splendidly!” answered Hector. “But what will Mrs. Gillespie say to it?”
“She and I are generally of one mind–about people, at least.”
“Then I will go home at once and set about finding what to say.”
“And I will go out at once and begin hunting you up an audience.”
Gillespie succeeded even better than he had anticipated; and there was
at the first lecture a very fair gathering indeed. When it was over, the
one that knew most of the subject was the young lecturer’s wife. The
first course was followed by two more, the third at the request of
almost all his hearers. And the result; was that, before the legacy fell
due, Annie had paid all their debts and had not contracted a single new
one.
But when the happy day dawned Annie was not able to go with her husband
to receive the money; neither did Hector wish that she had been able,
for he was glad to go alone. By her side lay a lovely woman-child
peacefully asleep. Hector declared her the very image of the child the
rainbow left behind as it vanished.
One day, when the mother was a little stronger, she called Hector to her
bedside, and playfully claimed the right to be the child’s godmother,
and to give it her name.
“And who else can have so good a right?” answered Hector. Yet he
wondered just a little that Annie should want the child named after
herself, and not after her mother.
But when the time for the child’s baptism came, Annie, who would hold
the little one herself, whispered in the ear of the clergyman:
“The child’s name is Iris.”
I have told my little story. But perhaps my readers will have patience
with me while I add just one little inch to the tail of the mouse my
mountain has borne.
Hector’s next book, although never so popular as in any outward sense to
be called a success, yet was not quite a failure even in regard to the
money it brought him, and even at the present day has not ceased to
bring in something. Doubtless it has faults not a few, but, happily, the
man who knows them best is he who wrote it, and he has never had to
repent that he did write it. And now he has an audience on which he can
depend to welcome whatever he writes. That he has enemies as well goes
without saying, but they are rather scorners than revilers, and they
have not yet caused him to retaliate once by criticising any work of
theirs. Neither, I believe, has he ever failed to recognize what of
genuine and good work most of them have produced. One of the best
results to himself of his constant endeavor to avoid jealousy is that he
is still able to write verse, and continues to take more pleasure in it
than in telling his tales. And still his own test of the success of any
of his books is the degree to which he enjoyed it himself while writing
it.
His legacy has long been spent, and he has often been in straits since;
but he has always gathered good from those straits, and has never again
felt as if slow walls were closing in upon him to crush him. And he has
hopes by God’s help, and with Annie’s, of getting through at last,
without ever having dishonored his high calling.
The last time I saw him, he introduced his wife to me–having just been
telling me his and her story–with the rather enigmatical words:
“This is my wife. You cannot see her very well, for, like Hamlet, I wear
her ‘in my heart’s core, aye, in my heart of hearts!’”
