‘Well, you see,’ said Alfred, who had now regained his self-possession, ‘my friends advised me to break off the connection. You know, between ourselves, it wouldn’t do for a literary man of any standing to marry a common innkeeper’s daughter; although I must say the girl herself was well enough, and might have passed muster after a little training.’
The editor’s eyes became blacker, keener, and sharper—they seemed almost to flash fire as he said; ‘You would know what she was, I suppose, when you sought her love.—Yes? Then what right had you to avail yourself of that as an excuse for casting her off? It’s about the most unmanly thing I ever’——
‘Hold, hold!’ cried Alfred, who saw he had gone on the wrong tack for conciliating the editor’s favour. ‘You misunderstand the matter. My friends wanted me to break off the marriage; but I never proposed such a thing to the young lady. I meant to marry her in two or three years honourably. But she wrote to me; and I went down to see her—and we had a quarrel, and she broke off the engagement herself—upon my honour, she did!’
The editor’s features relaxed their tension; there was almost the suggestion of a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, Mr Roberton, I am glad you have cleared your character so well.—You are anxious to know why I accepted your first paper. This, I think, will explain it,’ he added, unlocking a private drawer and handing him a manuscript.
Alfred looked at it with a stupefied air. Here were a dozen sheets of foolscap covered with Nan’s neat lady-like writing, and signed Ariel; reply to be addressed, Ariel, Glenluce post-office.—To lie till called for.
He felt as if he were listening to a voice in a dream, as the editor went on to say: ‘You see, sir, I heard that Nan was going to be married to a young student she had met in Brussels. Now, students, as a rule, are not over-burdened with ready cash; and when I got the manuscript in her handwriting, I readily came to the conclusion that it was a production of her lover’s, and that she had copied it out in her own handwriting, thinking that, for old acquaintance’ sake, I would stretch a point, and give it admission to our pages, and pay handsomely for it. This I did; for I thought that, as her father would be certain to be opposed to the match, a little ready cash would be useful to her and her lover in taking up house. In fact, I may say I sent the little sum as a marriage present! But I cannot understand how you are not aware of all this.’
The whole truth was now made plain to the unfortunate lover. He remembered now her snatching the letter from his hand and running up-stairs with it. He remembered now her red and sleepy-looking eyes the next morning. He knew now the cause—the devoted girl had sat up all night copying his manuscript, so that it might have the better chance of acceptance! How carefully she had kept the knowledge to herself of the great service she had done him, and that in spite of his foolish gasconading talk! To her and her alone he owed his little brief season of popularity and success: and that popularity and success was the cause of his looking down on her! Oh, what a blinded fool he had been—blinded by his own selfish vanity!
He mumbled a few words of explanation to the editor, and left the office a sadder and, it is to be hoped, a wiser man. He thought of flying to Nan, throwing himself at her feet, and entreating her forgiveness and love. But remembering the proud white face, the outstretched arm pointing to the door, and the clear emphatic ‘Go!’ twice repeated, he shook his head sadly, and muttered, ‘Too late—too late.’ It may be said here that he gave up literature for good and all, obtained a situation as a surgeon in an emigrant ship, fell in love with a lady-patient during the voyage, married her on their arrival at Sydney, and starting the practice of his profession, settled down there.
As for the editor of the Olympic, he went down as usual the following September to Lochenbreck, repeated a question he had asked before, and got a different reply. Nan is now his wife.