CHAPTER III.—SUCCESS AT LAST.
Alfred Roberton was too politic to make known the full extent of his discomfiture. He made light of the matter: most authors had had their difficulties at first, and why should he expect to escape? He made himself very agreeable to the old gentleman. The short experience he had had of trying to earn money had led him to reflect that a man having a snug going business and a farm worth four or five thousand pounds might not be such an undesirable father-in-law after all, even though he was an innkeeper. He threw greater fervour than ever into his manner towards Anne, and talked in a gay and hopeful way of the future. But she was too keen-sighted to be deceived; she read the secret of his crushed hopes in his sunken eyes and cheeks, and was not at all misled by his forced cheerfulness of manner. She forbore to annoy him with prying questions, and affected in the meantime to see as roseate a prospect as he himself did. When the colour came back to his cheeks and he began to look more like his former self, she spoke to him seriously. Would he allow her to see the returned manuscripts?
‘You know, Alfred,’ she said, ‘I have been a great reader of what is called “light literature” in my day, and perhaps I might—from a reader’s point of view, you know—happen to light on the secret of your want of success. Give me two or three of your stories, and I will have a look at them before I go to bed to-night.’
He was astonished! To think of this simple country girl proposing to criticise his literary work!
‘Well, Nan, I’ll select two or three of my best,’ he said; ‘but I fear you will prove far too indulgent a critic to be a just one.’
‘No, Alfred,’ the girl replied gravely; ‘you need not fear that. You may depend that any faults that I may perceive will be carefully pointed out to you. Don’t look for any kidglove treatment at my hands; and be prepared, in any case, to keep your temper.’
The next morning, after breakfast, she handed him his papers back. He could not possibly guess from her countenance what her impression had been. Her face had an earnest, but not an altogether unhopeful look about it; certainly, it did not show any signs at all of a wondering admiration for his genius.
‘Well, sir, I’ve read your stories, as I promised I would. I will say all my disagreeable things about them first. To begin: I think they lack the narrative power which leads a reader on, once he has commenced a story, and almost compels him to read it to the finish. Of course he is disappointed at the denouement; but he is equally ready to be cheated again by the next book he takes up, provided the author has the same power to lure him on. I think the first aim of a magazine writer should be to make his stories readable.’
‘And are not mine readable?’ he said, biting his lips and a frown overshadowing his brow.
‘Ah, I see you are wincing, Alfred! But didn’t I warn you I would be a severe critic? No; I did not say your stories were not readable; but they might be made much more so.’
And to his amazement, this young girl launched into a critical analysis of the plots, characters, and treatment of his three stories; and her remarks, strange to say, pretty closely agreed with those expressed by the ignorant London editors! Nan had verily profited by her old lover’s literary conversations; but Alfred knew nothing at all of that. She was then graciously pleased to say a few words of commendation.
‘Your style of composition is far too even for that sort of work. It lacks eccentricity’——
‘Pardon, Nan!’ he interrupted; ‘but are you serious? I have hitherto understood eccentricity was considered a blemish in any author’s style.’
‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘If not overdone, it lends a piquancy to writings that without it would attract no attention and be passed by as prosy. When an author happens to hit on a good original phrase, he should “ring the changes” on it. The reader recognises it as an old friend met under new circumstances, and is not at all displeased. An author who can originate a few phrases, put them in his mental kaleidoscope, so to speak, and sprinkle the resulting combinations through his book, is said to have acquired “a style,” and his books are sought after.’
‘By Jove, Nan, but you surprise me!’ he cried, looking at her with a puzzled air. ‘What, then, would you advise me to do?’
She was prepared for this question, and had been framing an answer to it in her mind for some days past. Obviously, the most sensible advice was for him to abandon his literary dreams, and settle down to the pursuit of his profession. But then sensible advice is rarely palatable, and still more rarely adopted. That he was determined to make a mark of some kind in literature, was evident, and she rather admired her lover’s indomitable pluck, in refusing to accept as final the unfavourable criticisms of London editors. If he hadn’t been her lover, she would probably have called it ‘stupid obstinacy.’ She therefore determined to urge him on in his literary projects; he was undoubtedly clever, and was certain, sooner or later, to see his productions in print. When he reached that goal, the glamour which possessed him would probably vanish; and he would then most likely return to his profession, as a surer road to success and distinction.
‘Did you ever try the Olympic, Alfred?’ she said.
‘O no,’ he rejoined. ‘You see, it is more of a review. Besides, it is a very high-class, exclusive magazine, and one not at all likely to encourage beginners like me.’
‘I know they don’t publish stories,’ continued Nan; ‘but they have often short descriptive articles. Now, I was thinking if you were to send the editor a short sketch of some kind in your very best style, he might perhaps put it in.’
‘And what kind of sketch would you propose?’ he inquired.
‘What would you think of “A Summer Ramble in Kirkcudbright?” she replied. ‘The editor belongs to that quarter; and if the description of the scenery and folks were well done, I think he might put it in.’
‘A capital idea, Nan. Why, I’ll set about it at once,’ he said impetuously.
Alfred went to work with renewed hope and vigour. After ten days’ alternate rambling and writing, he one evening announced that his paper was finished, and read it over to Nan in the parlour. On the whole she gave a favourable verdict on its merits; and it was sealed up and duly addressed to the editor of the Olympic. She had insisted on him using a nom de plume. He chose that of ‘Ariel;’ and the address was: ‘Post-office, Glenluce.—To lie till called for.’
The evening passed pleasantly in chat and song; and when Nan rose to bid good-bye for the night, she said: ‘By-the-bye, Alfred, you had better give me your letter with the manuscript. I will see the postman as he passes in the morning, and hand it to him.’
‘Nonsense, Nan!’ he returned. ‘Why, the mail-gig passes before six o’clock. There’s no use in disturbing you so early. I will hand it to him myself.’
She was inexorable in her request, however, and ended the dispute by playfully seizing the letter, and tripping up-stairs before he could prevent her. Once in the privacy of her own room, a strange change came over her. With knitted brow and compressed lips, she slowly paced the apartment. Evidently, she was making up her mind on some important resolve. At last she clasped her hands and whispered to herself: ‘Yes; I’ll do it—but is it fair?’
She had a tired and drowsy look next day; and when Alfred asked if she had been in time to give the postman the all-important letter, she answered somewhat petulantly in the affirmative. After a time he took to walking to Glenluce daily to see if there were any letters for ‘Ariel.’ For ten days he came back empty-handed and dispirited; on the eleventh he bounced into Nan’s private parlour in a state of wild delight.
‘I knew it—I was sure of it, Nan!’ he cried, ‘that the moment my writings came before a competent judge they would be fully appreciated. Look! here is a bank draft for twenty pounds. It only took me ten days to write the sketch. Why, it is payment at the rate of six hundred a year!’
‘Was there a note with it?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes; a precious short one, though. “The editor of the Olympic acknowledges receipt of Ariel’s manuscript, which he accepts, and begs to inclose bank draft for twenty pounds as an honorarium.” That is all.’
‘The editor has remunerated you very handsomely, I think,’ she said, continuing her sewing. ‘But mind that one swallow does not make a summer. Don’t be too sanguine. Other editors may not be so generous to you.’
‘Stuff!’ he replied loftily. ‘Do you mean to say he would have sent so much unless he knew he had got value, good value for it too? Do you know, Nan, I made up my mind, after getting the letter, to start for London to-morrow? I’ll call on the editor of the Olympic—perhaps he may’——
‘On no account must you do that, Alfred!’ she cried, dropping her sewing, and with a terrified look in her face. ‘Go to London, if you think proper; though I think you would be foolishly spending money in doing so. But you mustn’t call on the editor.’
‘And why mustn’t I call on him?’ he said in a displeased tone of voice.
‘I have reasons—private reasons of my own, Alfred, to wish you to refrain from doing so,’ she replied a little awkwardly. ‘I cannot explain them to you just yet; perhaps I may again. Meantime, you must promise me solemnly not to call on him, or send him any more contributions, unless you choose to do so in your own name. On no account must he be made aware that you are “Ariel.” Remember, it was through my advice you scored this first success; continue to follow it, for I can assure you it is for your own good.’
He grumbled a good deal, but in the end agreed to the restriction imposed on him. He held firm, however, to his intention of going to London; and Anne did not press her objections further. He could not understand why she was not more elated at this auspicious beginning of his literary career. In fact, he fancied he saw a pained expression passing over her countenance, when, in the exuberance of his spirits, he enlarged on the brilliancy of his prospects in the metropolis. Somehow or another, the success of ‘A Summer Ramble in Kirkcudbright’ detracted from rather than added to the happiness of the lovers. The slightest possible degree of coldness sprung up between them. He was annoyed, and even felt some distrust at the prohibition put on him regarding the Olympic. That Nan was annoyed at something, was apparent; but whether it was his anxiety to leave her and be off to the scene of his future triumphs, or what it was, was not very apparent. The only one who enjoyed unalloyed satisfaction from the event was old Mr Porteous. The bank draft convinced him more than a thousand arguments that there was money in literature, and that his proposed son-in-law possessed the Open Sesame to its stores. He had far too high an opinion of his old friend the editor’s sense than to suppose he would have given twenty pounds for a short sketch unless it was of real merit. These reflections made him a trifle more cordial to Alfred than he had yet been; and when he and Nan drove him to the railway station, they all parted the best of friends, the lovers promising to correspond punctually as before.