IV
“May I read these?” asked Eve.
She had unearthed a box full of old manuscripts he had written and cast aside.
“Burn ’em, if you like,” he replied.
She chose one from the pile, saying:
“Have they been sent anywhere?”
“Oh yes, a few have been the round. They are true to the boomerang type, for they always returned to the point of departure.”
She curled herself in the big armchair and began to read. The breakfast things had been washed up, the beds made, and the rooms tidied.
It was an article she had chosen, and the subject was “Education.” Wynne had a singularly marked style of his own—his sentences were crisp and incisive, his views original and striking. When he chose he could write with a degree of tenderness that was infinitely appealing; but in odd contrast to this mood, and usually in immediate proximity to his most happy expressed phrases, occurred passages of satire and mordant wit which detracted immeasurably from the charm of the whole. They stood out like blots upon the page.
The same conditions prevailed in each of the other manuscripts which Eve read, with the result that the fine susceptibilities which had been awakened by his best, were wounded by the ill-humour of his worst.
“Why do you give all the butterflies stings?” she asked.
The question pleased him, and he smiled.
“Why not? Aren’t they mostly well deserved?”
“By whom?”
“The public.”
She had it in mind to say that it was not the public who felt the sting, but, instead, she replied:
“May I copy these out?”
“If you like.”
She did, and, with certain reservations and omissions, dispatched them to the kind of periodical which might be interested.
Three weeks later a letter arrived from The Forum accepting the essay on Education. “Payment of ten guineas will be made on publication,” said the letter.
“But they refused it before!” exclaimed Wynne.
“I made a few cuts, and altered it a little.”
His forehead flew into straight creases.
“Where? What did you cut?”
She showed him.
He shook his head and paced up and down the room. “Heavens above!” he reproached. “Those were the best passages.”
“They weren’t. They were bad, and destructive.”
“Revolutionary, if you like.”
“The wrong sort of revolution.”
“Not at all. I wrote them with a purpose.”
“Then the purpose was wrong.”
“Thank God you cut them and not I. I should esteem myself a coward if I had done that.”
“I don’t. You will never heal by throwing vitriol.”
Wynne’s tenacity was tremendous, and he fought for every inch of ground before conceding it. The lesson, however, did him good, and thereafter, if not always with the best grace, he submitted his writings to her for approval.
Eve had a very sure literary sense, and her criticisms were as just as they were courageous. Wynne could never gauge to what extent a reader will allow the scourge of wit to fall upon his shoulders, but Eve, by some peculiar insight of her own, knew this to a nicety, and little by little forced him to her way of seeing.
As his writings began to be accepted he came to a silent acknowledgment of the value of her decisions, and, subconsciously, his mind, in certain directions, ran parallel with hers. By his sharp acquisitive sense he came to know how she arrived at her reasoning, and in learning this, the necessity to appeal to her diminished correspondingly. Once an idea was firmly implanted it became a part of his being, and very soon his pen lost its jagged edge and ran more smoothly over the pages.
For nearly a year the partners worked together, each in their separate spheres, to the common end of success.
That his mind might go free and unworried wheresoever it willed, Eve cooked and darned, and kept his house in order. It was a grey enough life, with little to raise it from the ruck of sordid domesticity. To all intent and purpose she was a general servant, privileged at rare intervals to wash her hands, sit at her master’s table and share his speech. Her reward was to hear an echo of some of her sweetness in his writings, and to see the results of her gentle care in his looks and bearing.
He had more colour, his step was springier than in the days before they had met, and this added vitality he converted into longer hours of labour. He never spared himself or relaxed, and his tireless energy, perseverance, and concentration were abnormal. Except when he needed her advice he appeared to be wholly detached, and scarcely aware of her presence. The cramped conditions in which they lived made it very difficult for Eve to conduct her household duties without disturbing him. He was very sensitive and exacting, and the sound of a rattled teacup would throw him out of line. Not the least of Eve’s achievement was the manner in which she contrived to do everything that was needful without disturbance, and at the same time to be ever ready to lay all aside in case he should want her.
A man will always give or find occupation for a woman, and in some small way or another the whole of Eve’s time was taken up in meeting his needs and wishes. She was obliged to forego many of the happy book hours she used to spend in order that the wheels could run smoothly and silently. This in itself was a very great sacrifice, for she had loved her reading, and grubbing with pots and pans, or bargaining with tradesfolk, was a sorry substitute.
“But it’s only for a while,” she comforted herself. “One day—” and her thoughts floated out to the sun-lit hills and the sweeping purple heather of the moors.