At the end of a week, two letters of introduction arrived: one to the M.P. who represented the borough in which Ingram had resided, and to whose cause he had rendered some service in his former newspaper capacity; the other was from a baronet, Ingram had also served in a similar mode, to a literary man of some eminence; in fact, the M.P. was also an eminent littérateur, so that Ingram's hopes grew large and fervid. The gentleman advised moderation; but Ingram could not observe it: his constitution, as yet, was master of his reason. He was smilingly received by the literary man; but he could not help observing that the literary man smiled more as he read the baronet's letter, than at his, Ingram's, application. He was begged politely to call again. He did call again—and again—-and again—before he found the literary man once more "at home." The event was a recommendation to wait on a small publisher, who had commenced a small periodical, and wanted a young man of genius, and all that, to edit it. Ingram went to work in that quarter:—helped to bring out four weekly numbers of the periodical—received one sovereign for his month's labour—and then the thing was stopped, like hundreds of similar ephemera, because "it did not sell."
The same literary man was visited again, when this engagement failed; but Ingram left his door in wrath, and never called again; because he saw the literary man enter his own house, while he, Ingram, was but at a dozen yards' distance from it; and yet the servant affirmed "he was not at home."
Ingram's better and more magnificent hopes, however, were yet undissipated. During his month's harassing and ill-paid labour on the unsuccessful magazine, he was awaiting an important decision: at least he believed so. The literary M.P. had also received him with smiles—smiles that Ingram had been inured to at election seasons; but which, as green as he was, he always felt to be assumed; for it is the heart, not the understanding, that really judges of the genuineness of a smile. Yet, on the occasion of Ingram's first call at the town residence of the legislator, the smile was so prolonged, that Ingram conceived it to be more like a real smile, than the evanescent and valvular-like changes of skin and muscle that the M.P. always seemed to have at such delightful and momentary command while "canvassing" or "returning thanks," in the borough he represented. And then the M.P. entered, of his own accord, on the inquiry as to what Ingram had written, and begged he would entrust a little manuscript or two, to his, the M.P.'s, care, and he would place them in the hand of his own publisher, with his own recommendation, if he believed they possessed merit.
The if shook Ingram a little; but he, next day, took his best manuscript, and left it at the M.P.'s house, for he was "not at home," like the other literary man, although Ingram really thought he heard his voice, when the servant took in the name of the caller; but the valet said, "Not at home, sir," when he returned, and so Ingram left the manuscript, and called again next day. To make the story as short as possible, he called fifteen times during the four weeks, but had only one more interview with the literary M.P. during that term; and this was the product of it: the M.P. assured Ingram that his manuscript possessed merit, much merit; that he had left it with his own publisher; and begged Ingram would call again in a few more days, and he would tell him whether the publisher received it.
This seemed to Ingram Wilson a very solid foundation for most magnificent hopes. How could a publisher refuse a manuscript which was so highly recommended? and how could the M.P. fail, very highly, to recommend what he himself said "possessed merit, much merit?" Such were Ingram's questions; and he was a little shocked to see his friend, the kind gentleman, shake his head and give a silent look, when they were proposed in the gentleman's hearing.
Another month passed, and the dream was dissipated! Ingram was always answered, "Not at home," when he called at the M.P.'s: his friend, the kind gentleman, called at the publisher's, and learned, most unequivocally, that the publisher had never had such a manuscript presented to him, either by the M.P. or any other person: Ingram wrote to the M.P., and received his manuscript by a messenger, for an answer; and was only prevented from writing back to tell the M.P. he was a rascal, by the advice, or, rather, authority, for it amounted to that, of his friend, the kind gentleman.
And now, Ingram, spirit-broken and humbled with what he conceived to be his sanguine and foundationless folly, vowed to his friend that he would never believe promises in future, and would copy at the Museum, or "do any thing" as a means of obtaining a mere livelihood, till he could finish one of his works entirely, and try a publisher by his own application, and solely on the merits of his production. The gentleman cheered the youth, as well as he was able, but Ingram drooped from that time.
A winter of heartache, inward grief, mortified pride, colds and coughs, and, eventually, consumption, succeeded. And then the sweet face of his beloved faded; and when the spring returned, it did not bring back the roses to her cheek.
A summer of toil for little pecuniary reward succeeded that winter, and Ingram received, at length, the appalling information from his friend, the kind gentleman, that he had embarrassed himself by entertaining him, for the gentleman was merely a retired half-pay naval officer. A look, depicturing such agony as Ingram never saw before, in the face of man, accompanied this declaration on the part of his friend, and Ingram never felt so truly miserable, since he was born, as he felt while witnessing it.
There was no room for hesitation: Ingram never tasted food in the kind gentleman's house after that avowal. Yet he called every day to exchange words of grateful friendship with the gentleman, words and looks of love with the beautiful being that was fast journeying to the tomb. In mid-winter she died: her delicate constitution, her sensitive fears and griefs for Ingram's fate, combined, were too much for her endurance.