‘But I am tiring you,’ said Mrs Collingwood, looking up with a smile.
‘Not at all. I am highly interested. Go on, please.’
‘We went away to the sea-side, and Charles took several packets of manuscript with him to amuse him, as he said, during the long days.
“Do you know,” he said to me one evening, “I think one could make something out of these things. If we cut out the objectionable passages which I expect were in the way of their publication”——
“My dear Charles,” I said, “these were his religion, and he would not have touched a word for worlds to make them more acceptable.”
“And died a martyr to the faith, eh?” said Charles. “Well, I shan’t be so very particular. There’s enough for a three-volume novel here, and I shall expurgate it and try its luck.”
‘Charles was never much of a penman, but I was a neat quick writer, and thus the copying fell upon me. Charlie did the botching and patching, and dictated as I copied. But what a task it was! I am sure the mere writing of it was worth all we were destined to get for it, let alone the author’s work and our amendments. Then we got a lot of the most taking three-volume novels from the library, and counted the words and lines, so as to get ours about the right length. It was finished at last, just as our house became vacant; and as soon as we got back to town I took it to a publisher. It was agreed that I was to do all this part of the work, for my poor Charlie used to say that if anything happened to him, I should find the use of these habits of business.’ Here she paused.
I coughed doubtfully. My knowledge of human nature led me to attribute the arrangement to shyness and laziness on his part. I did not, however, venture to disturb Mrs Collingwood’s illusions.
She resumed: ‘To our surprise and joy, after a delay of not more than three or four months, we heard from the publishers accepting our novel. We did not get any large sum for it, it is true, but it was highly thought of, and was to be well advertised; and that was the chief point. Whenever the author was inquired for, I gave out that he was my husband, but that he was an invalid. Charlie really was poorly at the time,’ she said blushing. ‘Ah, you shake your head; but in these days, my dear M——, it is necessary to be rusé as well as clever.’
‘But why not have given it out as the work of a deceased author?’