As, chapter by chapter, the novel grew under his hand, Kent saw, from
the little back-window, the snow disappear and the bare trees grow
green, until at last a fire was no longer necessary in the room, and
the waving fields that he overlooked were yellow with buttercups.
He rose at six now, and did about three hours' work before Cynthia
went down. Then they breakfasted, and, with an effort to throw some
interest into her voice, she would inquire how he had been getting
on. He probably felt that he had not been "getting on" at all, and
his response was not encouraging. After breakfast he would make an
attempt to read the newspaper, with his thoughts wandering back to
his manuscript, and Cynthia would have an interview with Ann. This
interview, ostensibly concluded before he went back to his desk,
was generally reopened as soon as he took his seat, and for some
unexplained reason the sequel usually occurred on the stairs. "Oh, what
from the grocer's, ma'am?" "So and so, and so forth."
"Yes, ma'am." "Oh, and--Ann!" "What do you say, ma'am?" More
instructions, interrupted by a prolonged banging at the tradesman's
door, and the girl's rush to open it. "What is it, Ann?" "The
fishmonger, ma'am." "Nothing this morning." "Nothing this morning,"
echoed by Ann; the boy's departing whistle, "Ann!" "Yes, ma'am?" "Ask
him how much a pound the salmon is to-day." "Hi! how much a pound's
the salmon?" Meanwhile, Kent beat his fists on the desk, and swore.
Once he had pitched his pen at the wall in a frenzy, and dashed on to
the landing to remonstrate; but he had felt such a brute when Cynthia
cried and declared that he had insulted her before the servant, and it
had wasted so much of his morning kissing her into serenity again, that
he decided it would hinder him less on the whole to bear the nuisance
without complaint.
The ink-splashes on the wall-paper testified to his having raged in
private on more than the one occasion, however, and the superior Ann's
feet appeared to him to grow heavier every week. The domestic machinery
was in his ears from morning till nightfall--from the time that she
began to bang about the house for cleaning purposes to the hour that he
heard her rattle the last of the dinner things in the scullery and go
to bed. It seemed to him often that it could not take much longer to
wash the plates and dishes of a Lord Mayor's banquet than Ann took to
wash those of his and Cynthia's simple meals, and when, like the report
of a cannon, the oven-door slammed, he yearned for his late lodging in
Soho as for a lost paradise.
And this wasn't all. His wife was less companionable to him daily.
Fifty times he had registered a mental oath that he would abandon
his hope of cultivating her and resign himself to her remaining what
she was; but he had too much affection for her to succeed in doing
it yet, and with every fresh endeavour and failure that he made his
dissatisfaction was intensified. He burned to talk about his work,
about other men's work, to speak of his ambitions, to laugh with
someone over a witty article; instead, their conversation was of Cæsar,
whose debut had been postponed till the autumn; of the engagement of
Dolly Brown, whom he did not know, to young Styles, of Norwood, whom
he had not met; of the laundress, who had formerly charged four-pence
for a blouse, and who now asked fivepence. When he pretended to be
entertained, she spoke of such things with animation. When he dropped
the mask, her manner was as dull as her topics, for she was as
sensitive as she was uninteresting.
Her wistful question, whether she had proved a disappointment,
recurred to him frequently, and to avoid wounding her he affected
good spirits more often than he yawned. But the strain was awful; and
when he escaped from it at last and sank into a chair alone, it was
with the sense of exhaustion that one feels after having been saddled
for an afternoon with a too talkative child. The oases in his desert
were Turquand's visits; but Turquand never came without a definite
invitation. Streatham was a long distance from Soho, and there was
always the risk of finding that they had gone to the Walfords'.
Besides, it was necessary to book to Streatham Hill, from the West End,
and the service was appalling, with the delays at the stations and the
stoppages between them, especially on the return journey, when the
train staggered to a standstill at almost every hundred yards.
One evening when he dined with them, Humphrey gave him some sheets of
his manuscript to read. He did not expect eulogies from Turquand, but
he would rather have had to listen to intelligent disapproval than
refrain from discussing the book any longer, and when the other praised
the work he was delighted.
"You really think it good?" he asked. "Better than the last? You don't
think they'll say I haven't fulfilled its promise? Honest Injun, you
know?"
"Seems very strong," said Turquand, sucking his pipe. "No, I don't
think you need tremble, if these pages aren't the top strawberries.
Rather Meredithian, that line about her eyes in the pause, isn't it?
You remember the one I mean, of course?"
Kent laughed gaily.
"It came like that," he said. "Fact! Does it look like a deliberate
imitation? Would you alter it? Oh, I say, talking of lines, I'm ill
with envy. 'Occasionally a girl, kissed from behind as she stretched to
reach a honeysuckle, rent with a scream the sickly-coloured, airless
evening.' The 'sickly-coloured, airless evening.' Isn't it great?
What do you think of that for atmosphere? And he's got it with the
two adjectives. But the 'honeysuckle'--the 'honeysuckle' with that
'sickly-coloured, airless'--you can smell it!" "Whose?"
"Moore's. I opened the book the other day, and it was the first thing
I saw. I had been hammering at a lane and summer evening paragraph
myself, and when I read that, I knew there wasn't an impression in all
my two hundred words."
"You shouldn't let him read, Mrs. Kent, while he has work on the
stocks," said the journalist. "I know this phase in him of old."
"Yes, and you used to be very rude," put in Kent perfunctorily. "My
wife isn't! I can be depressed now without being abused."
Cynthia laughed. She was very pretty where she lay back in the rocker
by the window. Her face was a trifle drawn now, but she looked girlish
and graceful still. She looked a wife of whom any man might be proud.
"You didn't mention it," she said; "I didn't know. But I don't see
anything wonderful in what you quoted, I must say! Do you, Mr.
Turquand? I'm sure 'sickly-coloured, airless, doesn't mean anything at
all."
"It means a good deal to me," said Kent. "I'd give a fiver to have
found that line."
"Cousins wouldn't give you any more for your book if you had," said
Turquand. "Put money in thy purse! I suppose you'll stick to Cousins?"
"Why not? Life's too short to find a publisher who'll pay you what
you think you're worth; and Cousins are affable. Affability covers a
multitude of sins, and there's a lot of compensation in a compliment.
Cousins senior told me I had a 'great gift.'"
"Perhaps he was referring to his hundred pounds."
"He was referring to my talent, though I says it as shouldn't. That was
your turn, Cynthia!"
"Yes," said Turquand; "a wife's very valuable at those moments, isn't
she, Mrs. Kent?"
"How do you mean?" said Cynthia, who found the conversational pace
inconveniently rapid.
"I shall send it to Cousins," went on Humphrey hastily; "and I want two
hundred and fifty this time."
"They won't give it you."
"Why not?"
"Partly because you'll accept less. And you haven't gone into a second
edition, remember." "Look at the reviews!"
"Cousins's will look at the sale. The thing will have to be precious
good for you to get as much as that!"
"It _will_ be precious good," said Kent seriously. "I'm doing all I
know! You shall wade right through it when it's finished, if you will,
and tell me your honest opinion. I won't say it's going to 'live' or
any rot like that; but it's the best work it is in me to do, and it
will be an advance on the other, that I'll swear."
"Mrs. St. Julian's last goes into a fourth edition next week," observed
Turquand grimly, "if that's any encouragement to you."
"Good Lord," said Kent, "it only came out in January! Is that a fact?"
"One of 'Life's Little Ironies'! Hers is the kind of stuff to sell,
my boy! The largest public don't want nature and style; they want an
improbable story and virtue rewarded. The poor 'companion' rambles
in the moonlight and a becoming dress, and has love passages in the
grounds at midnight--which wouldn't be respectable, only she's so
innocent. The heiress sighs for a title and an establishment in Park
Lane; I and the poor 'companion' says, 'Give me a cottage, with the
man I love,' making eyes at the biggest catch in the room, no doubt,
though the writer doesn't tell you that--and hooks him. Blessed is the
'companion' whose situation is in a story by Mrs. St. Julian, for she
shall be called the wife of the lord. Sonny, the first mission of a
novel is to be a pecuniary success--you are an ass! Excuse me, Mrs.
Kent."
"You may give him all the good advice you can. I've said before that I
like Mrs. St. Julian's stories, but Humphrey has made up his mind not
to. That's firmness, I suppose, as he is a man!" She laughed.
"Turk didn't imply that he liked them either. Isn't it painful, though,
to think of the following a woman like that can command? What a world
to write for--it breaks one's heart!"
"It's an over-rated place," said Turquand; "it's a fat-headed,
misguided, beast of a world!"
"It isn't the world," said Cynthia brightly; "it's the people in it!"
A ghastly silence followed her comment, a pause in which the journalist
stared at the stove ornament, affecting not to have heard her, and Kent
felt the sickness of death in his soul. Shame that his wife should say
such a stupid thing in Turquand's presence paralysed his tongue; and
Turquand, pitying his embarrassment, turned to the girl with an inquiry
about her relatives. Humphrey had taken him to The Hawthorns, as
requested, and Turquand, with characteristic perversity, had professed
to discover a congenial spirit in Miss Wix. It was about Miss Wix that
he asked now.
Cynthia laughed again.
"Yes, your favourite is quite well," she answered--"as cheerful as
ever."
"Fate hasn't been kind to Miss Wix," said Turquand; "she's been
chastened and chidden too much. In other circumstances----"
"Skittles!" said Humphrey.
"In other circumstances, she might have been sweeter, and less amusing.
Personally, I am grateful that there were not other circumstances. I
like Miss Wix as she is; she refreshes me."
"I wish she had that effect on _me_," said Kent, as the guest rose to
go and he reflected gloomily that he would hear nothing refreshing
until the next time they met. He begged him to remain a little
longer. And, when Turquand withstood his persuasions, he insisted on
accompanying him to the station, and parted from him on the platform
with almost sentimental regret.
Only his interest in his book sustained him. He was deep enough in
it for it to have a fascination for him now, and, though there were
still days when he did not produce more than a single page, there were
others on which composition was spontaneous and delightful, and happy
sentences seemed to fall off his pen of their own accord. He wrote
under difficulties when the summer came, for Cynthia required more and
more attention; but while he often devoted a whole morning or afternoon
to her, he made up for it by working on the novel half the night. More
than once he worked on it all night, and after a bath and a shave he
joined her at breakfast on very good terms with himself. To support the
sprightliness, however, he needed to breakfast with someone to whom he
could report his progress, and cry, "I've come to such a point," or,
"That difficulty that we foresaw, you know, is overcome--a grand idea!"
His exhilaration speedily evaporated at breakfast, and, if he returned
to his room an hour later, he did so feeling far less fresh than when
he had left it.
Yes, Cynthia demanded many attentions through the summer months; she
was petulant, capricious, and dissolved into tears at the smallest
provocation. There was much for Kent to consider besides the novel.
Also there were anticipations in which they momentarily united and he
felt her to be as close to him as she was dear. But these moments could
not make a life; and despite the fact that the time when they expected
their baby to be born was rapidly approaching, he was living more and
more within himself. Cynthia had no complaint to make against him; if
marriage was not altogether the elysium that she had imagined it would
prove, she did not hold that to be Humphrey's fault. She found him,
if eccentric, tender and considerate. But he was bored and weary. His
feeling for her was the affection of a man for a child, tinged more or
less consciously by compassion, since he knew that she would sob her
heart out if she suspected how tedious she appeared to him. Though she
would have been a happier woman with a different man, the cost of the
mistake that they had made was far more heavy to him than to her. He
realised what a mistake it had been, while she was ignorant of it. And
of this, at least, he was glad.