‘Collingwood was his name—Charles Collingwood.’
‘And the name of the first one was Dawson?’
‘You have guessed rightly. To continue. Charles’s great expectations had all come to a bad end. A rich relative, who had brought him up for his heir, took a great dislike to me, and cut him out of his will, for no reason in the world but that he had married me, and that we were very poor. When he died, and we found this out, it seemed that the world had come to an end for us. What was to be done? Live in the most niggardly way we might, but we could not live on nothing. First we began to sell the less essential parts of our belongings. We lived on old china for three months; and then we began on our paintings. We had some good ones by English artists, which my father had left behind him, and these kept us for a while. But this was like burning the planks of the ship to keep the engines going. Charles had tried hard for employment in the meantime. For the governorship of a colony; for a consulship; the post of adjutant of militia; the same thing in a Volunteer regiment; for the chief-constableship of a large town; for the management of a brewery; and ever so many things besides. All of no use.
“We must take in washing,” said Charles; “and I will become a second Mantilini, and turn the mangle.”
‘Lodgers were our next thought, and that seemed more feasible. Then some one advised us to let our house furnished. We put an advertisement in the papers, and by great good luck we had an offer for the whole of the house at once. Six guineas a week for May, June, and July. We made up our minds to take cheap lodgings somewhere on the coast, and spend only half our weekly six guineas, which would thus last us six months instead of three. As we were packing up our belongings and storing away the packages in the lumber-room, Charles stumbled over a lot of old boxes, from which arose a cloud of dust.
“What are these old things?” he cried.
“I don’t know anything about them. They were my first husband’s books and papers.”
“Books, eh?” said Charles. “Let’s have a look at ’em;” and broke open one of the boxes. This, however, turned out to be full of packets of manuscripts. Charles made a wry face over them, but he took out a packet and began to read it. I went on with the work. I had everything to do then, I must tell you, for we had dismissed our servants, and lived in the house by ourselves with only a char-woman to help—quite in picnic style.
‘Well dinner-time came, and Charles, who was still up-stairs reading his manuscript, brought it down with him and laid it beside his plate, and went on again reading directly after dinner.
“I tell you what it is, old woman,” he said, as we went to bed, “I feel muddled with it all, and rather as if I’d been supping off pork chops and Welsh-rabbit; but there’s something in that fellow’s writings, only they are coarse, decidedly coarse.”