Chapter V · —THE EDITOR’S SANCTUM—A DISCLOSURE.

Alfred Roberton felt the smart of Nan’s summary dismissal more than he could have expected, or even than he owned to himself. His vanity was sorely hurt, and he lost a good deal of that audacious insouciance in his manner towards the opposite sex for which he had been before remarkable. He sent back Nan’s letters honourably enough, and set himself to forget her, as she had him. In order to effect this, he determined to supplant the old love by a new; and commenced paying marked attentions to Miss Curtiss, the twenty-thousand-pound young lady. His suit prospered, and the fair one capitulated; but the terms of the surrender were to be fixed by her friends. They made objections to the smallness and uncertainty of his income. On the other hand, Alfred’s solicitor found the young lady’s properties were so heavily mortgaged as only to leave a very small margin of income; and the result was the negotiations were broken off. Then, somehow or another, his society was no longer so eagerly sought after. A young violinist had taken the place he formerly held in Mrs Judson’s social circle, and when that gentleman was present, Alfred was cast entirely in the shade. But there was worse than that: he could no longer find a market for the remainder of his manuscripts. The publishers and editors who had patronised him before were desirous of seeing what course the Olympic took with regard to him. It was very singular, they thought, that there never was any second article from his pen inserted in it. Some ill-speaking folks even went the length of hinting that he wasn’t ‘Ariel’ at all; that the claim he made to that nom de plume was a mere ruse to get into society, and get some of his trashy manuscripts palmed off on unsuspicious editors and publishers.

He felt these things very grievous to bear: the only hope that buoyed him up was, that when the editor of the Olympic returned to town, all would be put right. He would go straight to him and say: ‘I am Ariel! and here is a much superior sketch to the one I first sent you. Insert it, and I will not haggle with you about the amount of the honorarium, for I know you are a generous paymaster.’ Then all would again be well; he would resume his proper place in society, and his writings would be as eagerly sought after as ever.

It was towards the end of March when Mr Hannay returned from his prolonged continental tour. Allowing him a day or two to get settled down, one blowy, blustering forenoon, Alfred sallied forth to call on him. He sent in his card, and in a few minutes was in the editor’s sanctum.

‘Pray, be seated, sir,’ said Mr Hannay politely. ‘I—I do not remember your name, Mr Roberton.’

‘Ah, I daresay not,’ he replied, smiling. ‘You’ll know me better by my nom de plume. I am Ariel!’

Alfred was gratified to see the slight start which followed this important announcement, and he likewise became conscious that he was being inventoried by a pair of keen black eyes. He put a favourable interpretation on these indications of interest.

‘And what then, Mr Ariel, can I have the pleasure of doing for you?’ said Mr Hannay after a brief pause.

‘Well, sir, I have an excellent little paper here,’ Alfred replied, producing a manuscript from his coat-pocket. ‘It is entitled “A Week’s Yachting on the Rhine.” It is very carefully written; and I can vouch for its accuracy in details, as it is extended from notes I made when yachting there with a friend.’

‘Oh, very well, sir,’ said the editor, laying the paper aside. ‘I’ll take a look at it. But I can hold out hardly the least hope of being able to accept it. We are literally deluged with that sort of matter, and can’t find room for one in fifty of the manuscripts that are sent us.—At anyrate,’ he added, laughing, ‘it would require to be a little better than your “Ramble in Kirkcudbright.”’

What could all this mean? thought the bewildered Alfred. Was the editor making a fool of him? At the very suggestion, he flushed red, and it was with an effort he was able to stammer forth: ‘And pray, sir, if the article was so worthless, why did you accept it? And why did you send me so handsome an honorarium?’

The editor looked both surprised and puzzled. Instead of replying to the question, he asked one: ‘Are you the gentleman who is engaged to be married to Miss Anne Porteous?’

‘No!—Yes! That is to say, I was engaged, but am not so now.’

‘Indeed! And how is that?’ said the editor, with an air of interest.

‘Well, you see,’ said Alfred, who had now regained his self-possession, ‘my friends advised me to break off the connection. You know, between ourselves, it wouldn’t do for a literary man of any standing to marry a common innkeeper’s daughter; although I must say the girl herself was well enough, and might have passed muster after a little training.’

The editor’s eyes became blacker, keener, and sharper—they seemed almost to flash fire as he said; ‘You would know what she was, I suppose, when you sought her love.—Yes? Then what right had you to avail yourself of that as an excuse for casting her off? It’s about the most unmanly thing I ever’——

‘Hold, hold!’ cried Alfred, who saw he had gone on the wrong tack for conciliating the editor’s favour. ‘You misunderstand the matter. My friends wanted me to break off the marriage; but I never proposed such a thing to the young lady. I meant to marry her in two or three years honourably. But she wrote to me; and I went down to see her—and we had a quarrel, and she broke off the engagement herself—upon my honour, she did!’

The editor’s features relaxed their tension; there was almost the suggestion of a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, Mr Roberton, I am glad you have cleared your character so well.—You are anxious to know why I accepted your first paper. This, I think, will explain it,’ he added, unlocking a private drawer and handing him a manuscript.

Alfred looked at it with a stupefied air. Here were a dozen sheets of foolscap covered with Nan’s neat lady-like writing, and signed Ariel; reply to be addressed, Ariel, Glenluce post-office.—To lie till called for.

He felt as if he were listening to a voice in a dream, as the editor went on to say: ‘You see, sir, I heard that Nan was going to be married to a young student she had met in Brussels. Now, students, as a rule, are not over-burdened with ready cash; and when I got the manuscript in her handwriting, I readily came to the conclusion that it was a production of her lover’s, and that she had copied it out in her own handwriting, thinking that, for old acquaintance’ sake, I would stretch a point, and give it admission to our pages, and pay handsomely for it. This I did; for I thought that, as her father would be certain to be opposed to the match, a little ready cash would be useful to her and her lover in taking up house. In fact, I may say I sent the little sum as a marriage present! But I cannot understand how you are not aware of all this.’

The whole truth was now made plain to the unfortunate lover. He remembered now her snatching the letter from his hand and running up-stairs with it. He remembered now her red and sleepy-looking eyes the next morning. He knew now the cause—the devoted girl had sat up all night copying his manuscript, so that it might have the better chance of acceptance! How carefully she had kept the knowledge to herself of the great service she had done him, and that in spite of his foolish gasconading talk! To her and her alone he owed his little brief season of popularity and success: and that popularity and success was the cause of his looking down on her! Oh, what a blinded fool he had been—blinded by his own selfish vanity!

He mumbled a few words of explanation to the editor, and left the office a sadder and, it is to be hoped, a wiser man. He thought of flying to Nan, throwing himself at her feet, and entreating her forgiveness and love. But remembering the proud white face, the outstretched arm pointing to the door, and the clear emphatic ‘Go!’ twice repeated, he shook his head sadly, and muttered, ‘Too late—too late.’ It may be said here that he gave up literature for good and all, obtained a situation as a surgeon in an emigrant ship, fell in love with a lady-patient during the voyage, married her on their arrival at Sydney, and starting the practice of his profession, settled down there.

As for the editor of the Olympic, he went down as usual the following September to Lochenbreck, repeated a question he had asked before, and got a different reply. Nan is now his wife.