The proverbial bombshell, exploding at Henry Carleton’s feet, could hardly have made the same havoc with his body that Vaughan’s few words managed to create in his mind. And yet, to his credit be it said, his habitual self-control now stood him in such stead that after the one first uncontrollable glance of sheer surprise, he at once contrived to conceal not only his amazement, but as well any other feeling that might have been agitating his soul. And in another moment, indeed, he had even successfully achieved a very fair imitation of a jocular smile. “Rose,” he echoed, “my daughter Rose! Why, you’re joking with me, my dear fellow. She’s not eighteen yet. She’s a child.”
Vaughan, now that the worst was over, did not seem to be properly disconcerted at the reply. “Oh, I know she’s quite young,” he answered readily enough, “but that doesn’t seem to make any particular difference. We’re both prepared for a long engagement. I’m not well off, in the least. It’s bound to be some time before I could dream of providing for her in any proper way at all. But I love her, Mr. Carleton—as much, I think, as any man could—and she loves me, and we think, after all, that’s the main thing. The other details we’ll work out somehow, I guess.”
Henry Carleton had now perfectly regained his self-possession. He gazed at the young man with benevolence in his eye. “Yes, yes,” he assented, a little dreamily, “love, of course; that’s the great essential. With that I thoroughly agree. And yet, while with me Rose’s wishes are the first consideration—no, rather I should say the only consideration—still, as I understand you to say yourself, it must equally be a point of proper pride with every man to know that he is earning an honest living, amply sufficient for all future needs. I take it that you would hardly quarrel with that, Mr. Vaughan?”
To Vaughan it appeared that he was progressing famously. “No, indeed,” he cried readily enough, “I should say not. That’s the first thing to consider, of course. But I think I’m going to be able to solve that difficulty in a short time now. I think I’m fairly on my way to a little luck at last. You know, of course, Mr. Carleton, in any of the arts it isn’t exactly the same proposition for a man as if he’d chosen a business career. There, if he gets a start, and then sticks to his job, and shows any kind of ability at all, after a while he’s almost certain to get somewhere or other. But with any of the arts—that’s the chance a man takes when he turns his back on the solid, steady kind of things—you can work along for a devil of a while, putting in the very best that’s in you, too, and yet you always stand a good chance of not arriving at all, or, if you do, perhaps not till two or three hundred years after you’re dead. And of course, while even that, in a sense, is very gratifying, still it’s hardly practical. Dining late, but in select company, in Landor’s phrase, is all very well, if you can afford it, but the majority of us poor fellows have to dine in the middle of the day. The other thing’s a luxury we can’t afford.”
Henry Carleton nodded. “Quite so, quite so,” he said, “I know something of that myself. I thoroughly appreciate all the difficulties in the way of combining devotion to art with a large income. It’s one of the least gratifying things about our life of the present day. And still, too, each year I believe the artist is coming more and more fully into his own. But you were going to say—about your immediate prospects—”
Vaughan flushed a little. “I didn’t mean to ramble on into so long a preface,” he said, “I’m afraid it was nothing but a desire to excuse myself, anyway. However, here’s where I think I really have a chance at last. I’ve written a book—a novel—and it’s in the hands of Small and White now. Of course I needn’t tell you what it would mean to have their imprint on a book—it would be half the battle to start with. And I’ve been able to get a little information in a roundabout way, so that I have some idea of what’s happening. I know the book has got by the preliminary stages, anyway; I know that they’re really considering it seriously, and that is something in its favor. But I’m hoping for more than that; I’m hoping that they will really accept it, and launch it in good style; and if they do, why—I know of course you’ll think I’m conceited and over-fond of myself to say such a thing—but, with all sincerity, Mr. Carleton, I think the book would be a success; I think it makes an approach to something like literary merit. Oh, if I could once get my start—get some pretext for thinking that I had a right to put more and more time into writing, and less and less into what is really only the merest hack work, that has to be done so hastily and superficially that in the end it would kill any man’s style—then I’d work as nobody ever worked before—I’d kill myself to learn to write as I want to write—”
He broke off suddenly, his hands clenched, his face ablaze with the passion of the artist who craves to express in concrete form the dreams and visions that float athwart his brain. Henry Carleton sat regarding him narrowly, his face expressionless, but when he spoke, his tone could hardly have been kinder or more sympathetic.
“Yes, yes, I understand your feeling exactly,” he said, “and your ambition is a most worthy one. I’m delighted to hear about the book, and if you will allow me to do so, I should be very happy to try to help a little. There are one or two ways that occur to me off-hand—understand me, of course,—ways perfectly legitimate and businesslike in every particular, in which I think a word from me with Small and White might at least do no harm. Won’t you try to get me a list of the men who do their reading for them? We’ll leave no stone unturned that properly may be turned to give your effort a fair show. Rose’s happiness is my happiness, and to see you in a position when you may rightfully pay your addresses to her—that I most earnestly desire. And in the meantime, you must come out to The Birches—let me see—come out to-morrow night, won’t you, and dine with us? Jack’s coming, and another man, I think. I shall be delighted to have you join us, and I think, after what you have told me, I may safely answer for Rose.”
He rose as he finished speaking, extending his hand in farewell. Vaughan, rising also, could only stammer his thanks. “You’re too kind, altogether, Mr. Carleton,” he managed to say. “I know how any word from you would meet with the most respectful consideration from Small and White. It would help immensely. And as for to-morrow night, nothing could please me more. And how is Jack? I haven’t seen him since he got back from the West.”
“Jack is greatly improved, I think,” Henry Carleton answered, as it seemed to Vaughan, a trifle shortly, “however, you’ll see him to-morrow night, and can judge for yourself.”