'Well,' began Whelpdale, crossing his legs and watching a wreath he had just puffed from the cigar, 'you know all about my literary advisership. The business goes on reasonably well. I'm going to extend it in ways I'll explain to you presently. About six weeks ago I received a letter from a lady who referred to my advertisements, and said she had the manuscript of a novel which she would like to offer for my opinion. Two publishers had refused it, but one with complimentary phrases, and she hoped it mightn't be impossible to put the thing into acceptable shape. Of course I wrote optimistically, and the manuscript was sent to me.
Well, it wasn't actually bad--by Jove! you should have seen some of the things I have been asked to recommend to publishers! It wasn't hopelessly bad by any means, and I gave serious thought to it. After exchange of several letters I asked the authoress to come and see me, that we might save postage stamps and talk things over. She hadn't given me her address: I had to direct to a stationer's in Bayswater. She agreed to come, and did come. Ihad formed a sort of idea, but of course I was quite wrong.
Imagine my excitement when there came in a very beautiful girl, a tremendously interesting girl, about one-and-twenty--just the kind of girl that most strongly appeals to me; dark, pale, rather consumptive-looking, slender--no, there's no describing her;there really isn't! You must wait till you see her.'
'I hope the consumption was only a figure of speech,' remarked Biffen in his grave way.
'Oh, there's nothing serious the matter, I think. A slight cough, poor girl.'
'The deuce!' interjected Reardon.
'Oh, nothing, nothing! It'll be all right. Well, now, of course we talked over the story--in good earnest, you know. Little by little I induced her to speak of herself--this, after she'd come two or three times--and she told me lamentable things. She was absolutely alone in London, and hadn't had sufficient food for weeks; had sold all she could of her clothing; and so on. Her home was in Birmingham; she had been driven away by the brutality of a stepmother; a friend lent her a few pounds, and she came to London with an unfinished novel. Well, you know, this kind of thing would be enough to make me soft-hearted to any girl, let alone one who, to begin with, was absolutely my ideal. When she began to express a fear that I was giving too much time to her, that she wouldn't be able to pay my fees, and so on, I could restrain myself no longer. On the spot I asked her to marry me. Ididn't practise any deception, mind. I told her I was a poor devil who had failed as a realistic novelist and was earning bread in haphazard ways; and I explained frankly that I thought we might carry on various kinds of business together: she might go on with her novel-writing, and--so on. But she was frightened;I had been too abrupt. That's a fault of mine, you know; but Iwas so confoundedly afraid of losing her. And I told her as much, plainly.'
Biffen smiled.
'This would be exciting,' he said, 'if we didn't know the end of the story.'
'Yes. Pity I didn't keep it a secret. Well, she wouldn't say yes, but I could see that she didn't absolutely say no. "In any case,"I said, "you'll let me see you often? Fees be hanged! I'll work day and night for you. I'll do my utmost to get your novel accepted." And I implored her to let me lend her a little money.
It was very difficult to persuade her, but at last she accepted a few shillings. I could see in her face that she was hungry. Just imagine! A beautiful girl absolutely hungry; it drove me frantic!
But that was a great point gained. After that we saw each other almost every day, and at last--she consented! Did indeed! I can hardly believe it yet. We shall be married in a fortnight's time.'
'I congratulate you,' said Reardon.
'So do I,' sighed Biffen.
'The day before yesterday she went to Birmingham to see her father and tell him all about the affair. I agreed with her it was as well; the old fellow isn't badly off; and he may forgive her for running away, though he's under his wife's thumb, it appears. I had a note yesterday. She had gone to a friend's house for the first day. I hoped to have heard again this morning--must to-morrow, in any case. I live, as you may imagine, in wild excitement. Of course, if the old man stumps up a wedding present, all the better. But I don't care; we'll make a living somehow. What do you think I'm writing just now? An author's Guide. You know the kind of thing; they sell splendidly. Of course I shall make it a good advertisement of my business. Then I have a splendid idea. I'm going to advertise: "Novel-writing taught in ten lessons!" What do you think of that? No swindle;not a bit of it. I am quite capable of giving the ordinary man or woman ten very useful lessons. I've been working out the scheme;it would amuse you vastly, Reardon. The first lesson deals with the question of subjects, local colour--that kind of thing. Igravely advise people, if they possibly can, to write of the wealthy middle class; that's the popular subject, you know. Lords and ladies are all very well, but the real thing to take is a story about people who have no titles, but live in good Philistine style. I urge study of horsey matters especially;that's very important. You must be well up, too, in military grades, know about Sandhurst, and so on. Boating is an important topic. You see? Oh, I shall make a great thing of this. I shall teach my wife carefully, and then let her advertise lessons to girls; they'll prefer coming to a woman, you know.'
Biffen leant back and laughed noisily.
'How much shall you charge for the course?' asked Reardon.
'That'll depend. I shan't refuse a guinea or two; but some people may be made to pay five, perhaps.'
Someone knocked at the door, and a voice said:
'A letter for you, Mr Whelpdale.'
He started up, and came back into the room with face illuminated.
'Yes, it's from Birmingham; posted this morning. Look what an exquisite hand she writes!'