gerald yorke's book was out. an enterprising firm of publishers had been found to undertake it, and they brought it forth in due course to the public. great reviews followed closely upon its advent, lauding its merits and beauties to the skies. three critiques appeared in one week. the great morning paper gave one, as did the two chief weekly reviewing journals. and each one in its turn sung or said that for ages the public had not been so blest as in this most valuable work of fiction.
in his writing-room, the three glorious reviews before him, sat hamish channing, his heart and face alike in a glow. had the praises been bestowed upon himself, he could scarcely have rejoiced more. how gerald must have altered the book, he thought: and he felt grieved and vexed to have passed so uncompromising a judgment upon his friend's capabilities as a writer of fiction, when the manuscript was submitted to him. "it must have been that he wrote it too hastily, and has now taken time and consideration to his aid," decided hamish.
carrying the papers in his hand he sought his wife, and in the fulness of his heart read out to her the most telling sentences. bitter though the resentment was, that gerald was cherishing against hamish channing, he could but have experienced gratification had he witnessed the genuine satisfaction of both, the hearty emphasis which hamish gave to the laudations bestowed on the author.
"how hard he must have worked at it, ellen."
"yes; i did not think gerald had the application in him."
with his arm on the elbow of his chair, and his refined face a little raised as it rested on his hand, hamish took a few moments for thought. the eyes seemed to be seeking for something in the evening sky; the sweet light of hope pervaded unmistakably the whole bright countenance. hamish channing was but gazing at the vision that had become so entirely his; one that was rarely absent from him; that seemed to be depicted in all its radiant colouring whenever he looked out for it. fame, reward, appreciation; all were stirring his spirit within, in the vivid light of buoyant expectancy.
"and, if gerald's book has received this award of praise, what will not mine obtain?" ran his thoughts. for hamish knew that, try as gerald would, it was not in him to write as he himself could.
he took his hat and went forth to congratulate gerald, unable to be silent under this great fame that had fallen on his early friend. being late in the day, he thought gerald might be found at his wife's lodgings, for he knew he had been there more than usual of late.
true. gerald sought the lodgings as a kind of refuge. his chambers had become disagreeably hot, and it was only by dint of the utmost caution on his own part, and diligence on his servant's, that he could venture into them or out of them. the lodgings were less known, and gerald felt safer there. things were going very cross with him just now; money seemed to be wanted by his wife and his children and his creditors, all in a hurry, not to speak of the greatest want, himself; and there were moments when gerald yorke felt that he might have to seek some far-off city of refuge, as roland had done, and sail for a port natal.
there was no one in the sitting-room when hamish channing entered it. the maid said mr. yorke had gone out; mrs. yorke was putting her children to bed. on the table, side by side with the papers containing the three great reviews, lay a copy of the work. hamish took it up eagerly, anxious to see the new and good writing that had superseded the old.
he could not find it. one or two bad passages, that he specially remembered, caught his eye; they were there still, unaltered. had gerald carelessly overlooked them? hamish was turning over the pages in some wonder, when winny came in.
came in, cross, fractious, tearful. lonely as mrs. gerald yorke's life had been in gloucestershire, she had long wished herself back, for the one in london was becoming too trying. winny had none of the endurance that some wives can show, and love and suffer on.
she came tip to hamish with outstretched hand. but that he and ellen proved the generous friends they did, she could not have borne things. many and many a day there would have been no dinner for the poor little girls, no stop-gap for the petty creditors supplying the daily wants, no comforts of any sort at home, save for the unobtrusive, silently aiding hand of hamish channing.
"what is the matter, winny?" asked hamish, in relation to the tears. and he spoke very much as he would to a child. in fact, mrs. gerald yorke had mostly to be treated as one.
"gerald has been so cross; he boxed little kitty's ears, and nearly boxed mine," pleaded poor winny, putting herself into a low rocking-chair, near the window. "it is so unreasonable of him, you know, mr. channing, to vent it upon us. it's just as if it were our fault."
"vent what?" asked hamish, taking a seat at the table, and turning to face her.
"all of it," said winny, in her childish, fractious way. "his shortness of money, and the many bothers he is in. i can't help it. i would if i could, but if i can't, i can't, and gerald knows i can't."
"in bothers as usual?" spoke hamish, in his gay way.
"he is never out of them, mr. channing; you know he is not; and they get worse and worse. gerald has no certain income at all; and it seems to me that what he earns by writing, whether it's for magazines or whether it's for newspapers, is always drawn beforehand, for he never has any money to bring home. of course the tradespeople come and ask for their money; of course the landlady expects to be paid her weekly rent; and when they insist on seeing gerald, or stop him when he goes out, he comes back in such a passion you never saw. she made him savage this evening, and he took and boxed kitty."
"she! who?"
"the landlady--miss cook."
"winny, i paid miss cook myself, last week."
"oh, but i didn't tell you there was more owing to her; i didn't like to," answered helpless winny. "there is; and she has begun to worry always. she gets things in for us, and wants to be paid for them."
"of course she does," thought hamish. "where's gerald?" he asked.
"gone out somewhere. you know that money you let me have to pay the horrible bill i couldn't sleep for, and didn't dare to give to gerald," she continued, putting up her hands to her little distressed face. "i've got something to tell you about it."
hamish was at a loss. the bills he and his wife had advanced money for were getting numerous. winny, rocking herself gently, saw he did not recollect.
"it was for the shoes and stockings for the children and the boots for me; we had nothing to our feet. ellen brought me the money last saturday--three pounds--though the bill was not quite that. well, gerald saw the sovereigns lying in the dressing-table drawer--it was so stupid of me to leave them there!--and he took them. first he asked me where i'd got them from; i said i had scraped them up to pay for the children's shoes. upon that, he put them in his pocket, saying he had bills far more pressing than children's shoe bills, and must take them for his own use. o-o-o-o-o-oh!" concluded the young wife, with a burst of her childish grief, "i am very miserable."
"you should have told your husband the money belonged to mrs. channing--and was given to you by her for a special purpose."
"good gracious!" cried winny, astonishment arresting the tears in her pretty eyes. "as if i would dare to tell him that! if gerald thought you or ellen helped me, he would be in the worst passion of all. i'm not sure but he'd beat me."
"why?"
"he would think that i was running up a great debt on my own score for him to pay back sometime. and he has such oceans of pride, besides. you must never tell him, mr. channing."
"how does he think the accounts get paid?" asked hamish.
"he does not think about it," she answered, eagerly. "so long as he is not bothered, he won't be bothered. he will never look at a single bill, or hear me speak of one. as far as he knows, the people and miss cook come and worry me for money regularly. but oh! mr. channing! if i were to be worried to any degree, i should die. i should wish to die, for i could not bear it. ellen knows i could not."
yes; in a degree, hamish and his wife both knew this. winny yorke was quite unfitted to battle with the storms of the world; they could not see her breasting them, and not help. a brother of hers--and gerald was aware of this--who had been overwhelmed with the like, proved how ill he was fitted to bear, by putting a terrible end to them and all else.
"and so, that bill for the shoes and stockings was not paid, and they came after it today, and abused gerald--for i had said to them it would be ready money," pursued winny, rocking away. "oh, he was so angry! he forbid me to buy shoes; he said the children must go barefoot until he was in a better position. if the man comes tomorrow, and insists on seeing me, i shall have to run away. and fredy's ill."
the wind-up was rather unexpected, and given in a different tone. fredy was the eldest of the little girls, kitty the second, rosy the third.
"if she should be going to have the measles, the others will be sure to catch it, and then what should i do?" went on winny, piteously. "there'd be a doctor to pay for and medicine to be got, and i don't think druggists give credit to strangers. it may turn out to be only a bad cold."
"to be sure it may," said hamish cheerily. "hope for the best, mrs. yorke. ellen always does."
mrs. yorke sighed. ellen's husband was very different from hers.
"gerald is in luck; he will soon i think, be able to get over his difficulties. have you reed these reviews?" continued hamish, laying his hand upon the journals at his elbow.
"oh yes, i've read them," was the answer, given with slighting discontent.
"i never read anything finer--in the way of praise--than this review in the snarler," spoke hamish.
"he wrote that himself."
"wrote what?"
"that review in the snarler."
"who wrote it?" pursued hamish, rather at sea.
"gerald did."
"nonsense, winny. you must be mistaken."
"i'm sure i'm not," said winny. "he wrote it at this very table. he was three hours writing it, and then he was nearly as long altering it: taking out words and sentences and putting in stronger ones."
hamish, when his surprise was over, laughed slightly. it had a little destroyed his romance.
"and two friends of gerald's wrote the other reviews," said winny, continuing her revelations. "gerald has great influence with the reviewing people; he says he can get any work made or marred."
"oh, can he?" quoth hamish, with light good-nature. "at least, these reviews will tell well with the public and sell the book. why, winny, instead of being low-spirited, you have cause to be just the other way. it is a great thing to have got this book so well out. it may make gerald's fortune."
winny sat bolt upright in the rocking-chair, and looked at hamish, with a puzzled, cross face. he supposed that she did not understand.
"what i mean, winny, is that this book may lead really to fortune in the end. if gerald once becomes known as a successful author--"
"the bringing out of the book has caused him to be ten times more worried than before," interrupted whiny. "of course it is known that he has a book out, and the consequence is that everybody who has got sixpence owing by either of us, is dunning him for money--just as if the book had made his fortune! he cannot go to his chambers, unless he shoots in like a cat; and he is getting afraid to come here. my opinion is, that he'd have been better off without the book than with it."
this was not a particularly pleasant view of affairs; but hamish was far from subscribing to all winny said. he answered with his cheering smile, that was worth its weight in gold, and rose to leave.
"things are always darkest just before dawn, mrs. yorke. and i must repeat my opinion--that this book will lay the foundation of gerald's fortune. he will soon get out of his embarrassments."
"well, i don't understand it, but i know he says the book has plunged him into fresh debt," returned winny, gloomily. "i think he has had to pay an immense deal to get it out."
hamish was turning over the leaves of the book as he stood. winny at once offered to lend it him: there were two or three copies about the house, she said. accepting the offer, for he really wished to see the good and great alterations gerald must have made, hamish was putting the three volumes under his arm when the street door opened, and gerald came running up.
"well, old friend!" cried hamish, heartily, as he shook gerald's hand. "i came to wish you joy."
winny disappeared. never feeling altogether at ease in the presence of her clever, stern, arbitrary husband, she was glad to get away from it when she could. hamish and gerald stood at the window, talking together in the fading light, their theme gerald's book, the reviews, and other matters connected with it. hamish spoke the true sentiments of his heart when he said how glad and proud he was, for gerald's sake.
"i have been telling your wife that it is the first stepping-stone to fortune. it must be a great success, gerald."
"ah, i thought you were a little out in the opinion you formed of it," said gerald loftily.
"i am thankful it has proved so. you have taken pains to alter it, gerald."
"not much: i thought it did very well as it was. and the result proves i was right," added gerald complacently. "have you read the reviews?"
"i should think i have," said hamish warmly. "they brought me here tonight. reviews such as those will take the public by storm."
"yes, they tell rather a different tale from the verdict passed by you. you assured me i should never succeed in fiction; had mistaken my vocation; got no elements for it within me; might shut up shop. what do the reviews say? look at that one in the snarler," continued gerald, snatching up that noted authority, and holding it to the twilight, formed by the remnant of day and the light of the street-lamps, while he read an extract from its pages aloud.
"we do not know how to find terms of praise sufficiently high for this marvellously beautiful book of fiction. the grateful public, now running after its three volumes, cannot be supplied fast enough. from the first page to the last, attention is rapturously enchained; one cannot put the book down----"
"and so on, and so on," continued gerald, breaking off the laudatory recital suddenly, and flinging the paper behind him again. "no good to continue, as you've read it. yes, that is praise from the snarler. worth having, i take it," he concluded in unmistakable triumph over his fellow-man and author, quite unconscious that poor simple winny had let the cat out of the bag.
"if reviews ever sell a book, these must sell yours, gerald."
"i think so. we shall see whether your book gets such; it's finished, i hear," spoke gerald, leaning from the window to survey a man who had just crossed the street. "one never can tell what luck a work will have while it is in manuscript."
"one can tell what it ought to have."
"ought! oughts don't go for much now-a-days; favour does though. the devil take the fellow."
this last genial wish applied to the man, who had made for the house-door and was ringing its bell. gerald grew just a little troubled, and betrayed it.
"don't let these matters disturb your peace, gerald," advised hamish in his kindest and most impressive manner. "you cannot fail to get on now. have the publishers paid you anything yet?"
"paid me!" retorted gerald rather savagely, "they are asking for the money i owe them. it was arranged that i should advance fifty pounds towards bringing the book out. and i've not been able to give it them yet."
gerald spoke truly. the confiding publishers, not knowing the true state of mr. yorke's finances, but supposing there could be no danger with a man in his position--living in the great world, of aristocratic connections, getting his name up in journalism--had accepted in all good faith his plausible excuses for the non-prepayment of the fifty pounds, and brought out the book at their own cost. they were reminding him of it now; and more than hinting that a bargain was a bargain.
"and how i am to stave them off, the deuce only knows," observed gerald. "i want to keep in with them if i can. the notion of my finding fifty pounds!"
"there must be proceeds from a book with such reviews as these," said hamish. "let them take it out of their first returns."
"oh, ah! that's all very well; but i don't know," was the answer given gloomily.
"well, good night, old friend, for i must be off; you have my best wishes in every way. i am going to take home the book for a day; i should like to look over it; winny says you have other copies."
"take it if you like," growled gerald, who heard the maid's step on the stairs, and knew he was going to be appealed to. "now then!" he angrily saluted her, as she came in. "i've told you before you are not to bring messages up to me after dusk. how dare you disobey?"
"it's that gentleman that always will see you, sir," spoke the discomfited girl.
"i am gone to bed," roared gerald; "be off and say so."
and hamish channing, running lightly downstairs, heard the bolt of the room slipped, as the servant came out of it. that gerald had a good deal of this kind of worry, there was no doubt; but he did not go the best way to work to prevent it.
as soon as hamish got home, he sat down to his writing-table, and set himself to examine gerald's book. gradually, as he turned page after page of the three volumes in rotation, a perplexed, dissatisfied look, mixed with much disappointment, seated itself in his face.
there had been no alterations made at all. all the objectionable elements were there, just as they had been in the manuscript. the book was, in fact, exactly what hamish had found it--utterly worthless and terribly fast. it had not a chance of ultimate success. not one reader in ten, beginning the book, would be able to call up patience to finish it. and hamish was grievously vexed for gerald's sake; he could have set on to bewail and bemoan aloud.
suddenly the reviews flashed over his mind; their glowing descriptions, their subtle praise, their seductive, lavish promises. in spite of himself, of his deep feeling, his real vexation, he burst into a fit of laughter, prolonged until he had to hold his sides, at the thought of how the very innocent and helpless public would be taken in.
