The door was rudely pushed open; his mother entered, and flung the manuscript of the returned tragedy on the table.
“There—there’s another of them!” she cried, rage choked her voice for a moment.
Andrew was stunned. Despair seemed to have frozen him all at once into a statue. He mechanically took up the packet, and, opening it, he read the cold, polite, brief note, which told of the rejection of his play both by theatres and publishers.
“Idiot—fool—scribbling fool!”
The unfortunate poet’s mother sank into a chair, as if unable to support the force of her anger.
“Fool!—scribbling madman! will ye never give over?”
Andrew made no answer; but every one of his mother’s furious words sank into his brain, adding to the force of his unutterable misery.
“Will ye go now, and take to some other trade, will ye?—will ye, I say?”
Andrew’s lips moved for a moment, but no sound came from them.
“Will ye go out, and make money, I say, at some sensible work? Make money for me, will you? I’ll force you out to make money at some work by which there’s money to be made; not the like of that idiot writing of yours, curse it. Answer me, and tell me you’ll go out and work for money now?”