The idea of an abridged "Wenderholme" had been accepted by the author, who had written to Messrs. Blackwood about it, and who received the satisfactory answer that, "though they had sustained a loss with the first publication, they thought that the reputation and popularity of the writer having considerably increased, 'Wenderholme' would sell well in their 'Library Series of Novels.'" In consequence the revision was begun at once, for Roberts Brothers had also written, "Whenever you feel inclined to take up 'Wenderholme,' we shall be glad to comply with your demand." And there followed a new proposition in the same letter:—
"Since writing you about a new novel, we have had an inspiration, and have already acted upon it—a series of novelettes, to be published anonymously, the secret of authorship, for a period, to rest entirely with the author and publisher. We shall call it the 'No Name Series,' and issue it in neat, square 18mo volumes of about 250 pages, to sell for one dollar.
"Those to whom we have suggested the idea are mightily pleased, and we are even tickled with the great fun we expect to have—something like a new experience of the 'Great Unknown' days of Sir Walter Scott. We have several promises from well-known authors, and we all agree that you must write one of them. Take your own time to do so, and when you send us the 'copy' we will advance £50 towards the copyright. People say it will be impossible to keep the secret, for an author's style cannot be hidden; but though it may be easy enough to say, 'Oh! this is Hamerton; anybody can tell his style,' if it is not admitted, there will be uncertainty enough to make it exciting, and create a demand—we hope a large one."
Although my husband had not been so well in the spring (it was the worst time of the year for him), he decided to start for England early in June to see the Paris Salon and the English Academy. He did not ask me to go with him, for our daughter had had quite recently a bad attack of bronchitis—at one time we had even feared inflammation of the lungs—and the greatest care against the possibility of colds had been recommended. However, he thought he would be equal to the journey, and gave me a promise to stop whenever he felt unwell. He reached Paris all right, did his work there, and had a kind letter from Mr. Seeley, who said:—
"I was greatly pleased to receive your card this morning, and learn that you had had a successful journey. Now you will certainly come and see me, won't you? Brunet-Debaines is here, and will remain till the end of next week. If you are with us then, we will get him to Kingston, and have a day on the Thames together, and all of us shall make sketches."
It was very tempting. But the next news was not so good, and Mr. Seeley wrote again:—
"If you have lost your appetite in a big town the remedy is plain. Come to Kingston at once. You will not be much troubled with noise there, and you can paddle about on the river and get hungry, or go flying madly about on a bicycle, if you have kept up the practice. There is a big bedroom empty, and waiting for you."
The journey was resumed as far as Amiens, but the enemy proved too strong to be overcome by courage and resolution, and after resting two days my husband came back home by easy stages, having only told me the truth after leaving Amiens, to prevent my going to him at any cost. He reached La Tuilerie on the first of July, and I see in the diary: "Rested at home. Very glad to be there." The attempt was not attended by any lasting bad effects; he immediately regained his appetite and usual health; but his Aunt Susan was sorely disappointed. He tried to soothe her by explaining what he believed to be the combined causes of his breakdown: first the intense heat, which had made his stay in Paris very trying; the fatigue he had undergone there; and lastly the weakness supervening after the loss of appetite, also due to the abnormal heat, which was causing several sunstrokes every day, even in England. He announced his intention of making another attempt with me in the autumn, when the chances would be more in his favor.
Since the beginning of the year the study of painting had become predominant, and had necessitated rather a heavy outlay, because Gilbert's schemes were always so elaborate and complex—drawing-boards of different sizes, every one of them with a tin cover painted and varnished; some for water-colors, others for charcoals; canvases for oils and monochromes, wooden and porcelain palettes, pastilles, tubes, portable easels, sunshades, knapsacks, stools, brushes, block-books, papers for water-colors and chalk studies, tinted and white, numberless portfolios to class the studies, and—a gig, to carry the paraphernalia to greater distances and in less time than the four-wheeled carriage required. I was against the gig, but the boys were of course delighted, and declared with their father that it had become "absolutely necessary."
I see in the diary: "July 30, 1876. In the evening went to Autun on Cocote; enjoyed the ride considerably. Brought back the gig. Wife sulky." The expenses of the year had been very heavy, owing to several causes; first some house repairs had become inevitable, and the landlord offering us only the option of doing them at our own cost or leaving the house, we had to order them. The roofs were in such a state that in stormy weather we had our ceilings and wall-papers drenched with rain-water, and indeed it had even begun to make its way through the ceilings into the inhabited rooms. The diary for March 12, 1876, says: "A very stormy day, the wildest of the whole year. We arranged the tents (Stephen and I) in the attic, to prevent the rain from coming into our bedroom." Then there had been boats made for the boys (cheap boats, it is true, made by common joiners). They were well deserved, I acknowledge; the boys had had each an accessit at the "Concours Académique," and both were mentioned with praise by the Sous-Préfet at the public distribution of prizes. Besides, what was still more important, Stephen had successfully passed his examination for the "Baccalauréat." Lastly, there had been an expensive and unproductive journey, and there was the prospect of another. All this in the same year somewhat alarmed me. The gig was not an important concern, being made, like the four-wheeled carriage, from designs of my husband's, by ordinary wheelwrights and blacksmiths; but though admitting its usefulness, and even desirableness, I thought we might have done without it.