‘And you took it?’
‘Why, yes. Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Well, Alfred, if I had been in your place, I would not have accepted of a gift given in such a spirit. However, it will be useful when you begin practice, which I suppose you will be doing at once now.’
‘Start business as a doctor in London, with only a hundred pounds to fall back on! Why, Nan, you’re surely joking. But I forget: girls don’t understand these matters.’
‘Then, what do you purpose doing?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Oh, my mind is quite made up as to that,’ he said, drawing himself up proudly. ‘I intend devoting myself to literature.’
‘And throw away all your medical study and training for nothing,’ she exclaimed. ‘Surely, that would be folly, Alfred.’
‘There’s no folly about it,’ he answered. ‘Lots of fellows, without half the education or, I may say, ability that I possess, make a thousand or two a year by writing science articles, stories, and what not for the monthlies. I’m told it’s about the best paying thing that’s going. And then, you see, it does not require any capital. You just jot down your thoughts on a quire of paper, forward it to an editor, and you get a cheque back by return of post for twenty or thirty guineas—or far more, if your name is well known—as mine will soon be,’ he added confidently.
This piece of news was not very pleasant to poor Nan. To be a doctor’s wife in a year or two was an agreeable enough prospect, especially when she so fondly loved the man. But to enter on matrimony with no more assured means of living than the honorariums which fall to the lot of an ordinary literary hack, was a bleak lookout. How often had she heard Mr Hannay aver that not one in a hundred who tried literature as a profession succeeded in earning a decent living. True, Alfred must be very clever, from the number and value of his college prizes; but then, hadn’t her old friend often said that education had but little to do with literary success, and that he had rejected more manuscripts from college-bred would-be contributors than from any other class. She did not fear a life of haphazard poverty for herself; but her woman’s instinct told her that it would press hardly on Alfred. She was not blind to the imperfections of his nature; she was far too clear-headed for that. But she regarded him from two distinctly different points of view: from the one, her common-sense showed him in all his human imperfections and failings; from the other, or ideal one, he appeared as a being so far exalted above the common herd of men that to love and serve him all the days of her life would be her chiefest joy and happiness. As the stereoscope projects two different images into one more seemingly real than either taken singly, so did her woman’s love commingle these diverse impressions of her lover into a glorified and lovable whole. Who on this earth could be to her what he was to her? Not being of an exacting or jealous nature, she had never asked herself the question—Did he love her as she loved him? If she had done so, she would have smiled in scorn at the very suggestion of such a mean doubt; for did not she remember his warm, trembling words of love—his soft sighs and tender caresses—his declarations of hopeless despair, if she withheld her heart from him? It certainly was a pity this abandonment of his profession; but then, it might only be a temporary one. He perhaps might find that, clever as he was, the paths leading to literary success were steeper and less flowery than he imagined. If so, then, of course, he would start practice, and all would yet be well. The slight shadow on her countenance cleared off. She said: ‘Well, Alfred, you should know best—perhaps you are right. Come and I’ll take you to our private parlour. Papa is sitting out in the garden. I must bring him in and introduce him to you.—He must know all now,’ she added with a slight tremor. She had put off the evil day as long as she could; but further concealment was now impossible.
It was with faltering accents she confessed her secret to the old gentleman, as she sat down beside him in the garden arbour. If she had informed him that Lochenbreck had suddenly run dry, he could not have been more astonished. Then he got angry, and made use of some very uncomplimentary expressions regarding Anne and her sex in general. But he was a man of sense and feeling at heart; and when he saw the hot tears coursing down her cheeks, he checked himself at once, caressed her, and told her not to make a fool of herself. He knew Anne’s character too well to think that he, or any one, could prevent her permanently from doing anything her heart was set on, and which her sound moral consciousness told her was right and justifiable. He, it is true, had cherished secret hopes that his old friend Hannay might have taken a fancy for the girl, and he would have parted with her to him freely; now he was asked to give her to a man that he had never yet seen. It was monstrous; but then girls always do act in a ridiculous and contrary manner in these matters of love.