Next day, Martin came rushing down to my sitting-room with a sheaf of
letters in his hand, saying:
"That was jolly good of the boss, but look what he has let me in for?"
They were requests from various newspapers for portraits and interviews,
and particularly from one great London journal for a special article to
contain an account of the nature and object of the proposed experiment.
"What am I to do?" he said. "I'm all right for stringing gabble, but I
couldn't _write_ anything to save my soul. Now, you could. I'm sure you
could. You could write like Robinson Crusoe. Why shouldn't you write the
article and I'll tell you what to put into it?"
There was no resisting that. And down at the bottom of my secret heart I
was glad of the excuse to my conscience that I could not any longer run
away from Martin because I was necessary to help him.
So we sat together all day long, and though it was like shooting the
rapids to follow Martin's impetuous and imaginative speech, I did my
best to translate his disconnected outbursts into more connected words,
and when the article was written and read aloud to him he was delighted.
"Stunning! Didn't I say you could write like Robinson Crusoe?"
In due course it was published and made a deep impression, for wherever
I went people were talking of it, and though some said "Fudge!" and
others, like my husband, said "Dreams!" the practical result was that
the great newspaper started a public subscription with the object of
providing funds for the realisation of Martin's scheme.
This brought him an immense correspondence, so that every morning he
came down with an armful of letters and piteous appeals to me to help
him to reply to them.
I knew it would be dangerous to put myself in the way of so much
temptation, but the end of it was that day after day we sat together in
my sitting-room, answering the inquiries of the sceptical, the
congratulations of the convinced, and the offers of assistance that came
from people who wished to join in the expedition.
What a joy it was! It was like the dawn of a new life to me. But the
highest happiness of all was to protect Martin against himself, to save
him from his over-generous impulses--in a word, to mother him.
Many of the letters he received were mere mendicancy. He was not rich,
yet he could not resist a pitiful appeal, especially if it came from a
woman, and it was as much as I could do to restrain him from ruining
himself.