A tremor of joy passed through her because she had made him happy. She began to talk eagerly, so that, for a time at least, he might forget the ship, and might not remember, what she understood now, that “for weeks and weeks” there had been nothing but this meeting to which he might look forward.
From the bridge of the Pathshire Nick Ordith was surveying the shore through a telescope.
“Dull spot, Yeoman,” he said.
The Yeoman of Signals rubbed his hands. “Precious cold in the winter, sir.”
IV
John returned to the ship in a spirit of exultation, intoxicated, not so much by the heady wine of praise as by the discovery that he was not altogether alone in his difficult world. Margaret cared what became of him; apparently Mr. Alter also cared. But it was Margaret’s interest and her personality that filled his thoughts to the exclusion of the colder critic. He sought out Hartington, and laid the matter before him, reading aloud Mr. Alter’s letter, and repeating the passages in it which seemed to him unusually important.
“Dear Lynwood,
“I am sending this letter by Margaret lest it follow you from sea to sea. If she does not meet you at once, she can at least discover your whereabouts.
“I have shown your work to several friends—all creative artists, not critics only. Their opinions support my own. Probably in your present situation you have no one to whom you can go for counsel, so I have taken upon myself the duties of adviser. You must read. I don’t care about the quantity, but your reading must be regular and sound. The modern men are excellent when you have found your own feet, but before you are twenty you are prone to imitation of their extremes—probably the worst of them. So go back to men whom you will not be tempted to imitate. Read the Actes and Monuments, Swift, Addison, Walton, Goldsmith. Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy has been an inexhaustible quarry for later essayists. If you must have the living, try Mrs. Meynell for her prose. Go to De Quincey for speed and amazement, Poe for short stories, Fielding for action—Fielding, in fact, for most things. In poetry, take Shakespeare—enough, believe me, for your present needs.