“He put only the printer’s name on the title-page. The day it appeared he went to the country and shut himself up. He had not even dared open his letters.”
“I can’t blame him;”—Gordon’s voice was metallic—“Moore wrote me the attorney-general would probably suppress it.”
“I carried him the reviews,” continued Dallas.
“I can guess their verdict!”
The other shook his head with an eager smile that brightened his whole countenance. “A few condemned, of course. Many hedged. But the Edinburgh Review—”
“Jeffrey. What did he say?”
The answer came with a vibrant emphasis: “That every word was touched with immortality!”
Gordon turned, surprised into wonder. His ancient detractor, whose early blow had struck from the flint in his soul that youthful flash, his dynamic Satire. The literary Nero whose nod had killed Keats. Was the old sneer become praise—now? Immortality!—not “damned to everlasting fame”? A glow of color came to his face.
The older man got up hastily and laid his hand affectionately on the other’s shoulder. It seemed the moment to say what was on his mind. His voice shook:
“George, come back to England! Do not exile yourself longer. It is ready to forget its madness and to regret. Public feeling has changed! When Lady Caroline Lamb published ‘Glenarvon,’ her novel that made you out a man-monster, it did not sell an edition. She appeared at Lady Jersey’s masquerade as Don Juan in the costume of a Mephistopheles, and the crowd even hissed. London is waiting for you, George! All it gave you once shall be yours again. You have only to come back!”