University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE YOUNG AUTHORS.

Susan and Ned had been well-advised not to expect to
obtain possession of the fortune of D. L. Parke immediately,
and to be prepared for long delays and possibly a
final disappointment. And hence, when informed that no
action would be attempted in the premises for several
months, they were not painfully shocked by the intelligence.
Of one thing the law's delays could not deprive
them; and that was the inexpressible happiness of knowing
they were united by the ties of kindred, and that the generous
affection which had hitherto bound them together was
to be henceforth an obligatory duty as well as the result of
accident and inclination. Susan now considered the poor
orphan as justly entitled to all the care and bounty she
could bestow upon him; and he felt that she had additional
claims to his respect and obedience.

But the few months which succeeded the events at
Summerton already described, had not, for divers reasons,
been a season of dulness and impatient inquietude to our
hero. His romance was appearing weekly in the columns
of the — and he derived much satisfaction from the
repeated assurances of the editor that the story was exciting
considerable interest. As it had been stipulated that

Ned's name should not appear as the author, the editor had
adopted a nom de plume for him, and the tale purported
to have been written by “Mark Mayfield.” Susan alone
was entrusted with the secret, and Ned was delighted to
watch the changes of her countenance as she pored over
the successive numbers of the paper, now shedding a tear
of pity, now bursting into hilarious laughter, and always
praising the production. The author was not forgetful of
the fact that this was likely to be the judgment of a partial
friend; but the changes of colour and the movements of
feature could hardly be voluntary, and he thought if his
production was destined to produce such effects on indifferent
readers, his effort would not prove to have been
made in vain.

It was when the tale was nearly concluded that Ned
received a letter from the editor, which afforded him quite
as much exquisite delight, as one announcing the recovery
of a fortune would have done. It stated that he had
several weeks previously negotiated with a publisher to
issue the romance in book-form, stipulating that the author
was to receive the usual per cent. on the copies printed, and
he doubted not the arrangement would prove a satisfactory
one to both parties. He said the publisher had taken the
responsibility of changing the title, but retained the cognomen
of “Mayfield.” The publisher had caused to be
printed the chapters as fast as they appeared in the paper,
and had anticipated the appearance of the concluding ones
by using the manuscript, which privilege had been freely
granted him. This had been solicited because of the eagerness
of many of the subscribers to the paper to learn the
denouement of the plot, by purchasing the book. “And
now,” added the editor, at the conclusion of the letter,
“after all the above circumlocution, I have merely to say
that the book is already issued, and is selling famously.
No doubt you have seen some mention of it in the list of
new books, but failed to recognize your own offspring under
another name. It is now simply “The Dishonoured,” and
if you will look into the morning papers you will see it
advertised as being for sale at a dozen book stores. I
intended to send you a copy, but mine is mislaid or has
been borrowed. I will do so to-morrow, if you do not in
the mean time visit the city.”

When Ned had finished reading the letter he placed it
in the hands of Susan, and watched at a distance the effect
it produced. One moment she was pale and tearful, and
the next was smiling through her tears.

“Why, Ned,” said she, when she arrived at the conclusion,
“the book is printed, and he says it is selling famously.
Heaven be praised! But I knew it would please everybody
if you could only get it published, because it interested
me so much.”

“But perhaps you were prepossessed in favour of the
author.”

“No doubt of it. But then I likewise considered
whether or not I should like it if I knew not who wrote
it; and I declare it was my candid opinion that it was an
exceedingly interesting tale.”

“And that was my opinion, decidedly,” said Ned, “banteringly.
“If it should only bring me a hundred dollars,
Susan, I will write better stories hereafter, and make wages
at it, too.”

“Your friend Charles earns something with his pen, and
why should not you be able to do likewise?”

“Yes, Charles derives a scanty support, some seven or
eight dollars a week, writing reviews for a magazine, and
notices for a newspaper—Here it is! They've published
it!” cried Ned, in great excitement, glancing his eye down
the columns of a literary journal which he had received
at the post-office with his letter, but which had been temporarily
forgotten.

“What, Ned?” asked Susan. “The book? Is it there?
No! You mean—”

“No I don't, Susan. You don't know anything about
it. Didn' you see me writing something a few days ago,
in the little room over the kitchen?”

“Yes, Ned.”

“Well, here it is in print! It was a review of Charley's
poem. Now he shall have a joyful surprise. I must go
to him at once. I have not seen him since I wrote the
article, and he is doubtless wondering why I have kept
away. Poor fellow, his health is not good, or he would
have been to see me. It distresses him to walk, but his
mind is bright and vigourous. He shall be happy to-night!”

“And his friend will be in a fitting condition to sympathize
with him,” said Susan, as Ned was striding rapidly
away.

It was not long before the quick step of our hero
traversed the distance between Summerton and the vine-clad
cottage of Mrs. Kale. In the centre of the neat
little room called the parlour, but which the widow had
wholly surrendered to her guest, as she was too poor to
have many visitors, young Montague was seated near a
small table, pale, but with a sweet smile on his lip.
Throwing down the paper in which he had been reading
his last contribution of notices of new books, he sprang
forward, and seizing his friend's hand, exclaimed: “Ned!
What has been the matter? Why have you not been
here since—since, when was it? an age!—last Saturday.
You know the doctor came up from the city to get fresh
air for himself, and thought I was getting worse—at least
he has warned me not to venture far—for fear of a hæmorrhage,
or something of the sort. And, Ned,” he continued,
when his friend was seated opposite, and regarding him
with looks of concern, “I have sometimes of late had seasons
of gloom and depression, and was almost ready to
believe I was rapidly drawing near the place of my final
abode. But—but still, you know, death can have no
terrors for the Christian believer and guileless author,
further than the annihilation of his plans—”

“Oh, Charles!” said Ned, with moistened eyes, “cease
to dwell on so mournful a theme. By thinking too much
of disease and death I have no doubt many a poor fellow's
end has been hastened. Let such be the fate of weaker
intellects. But we, always first endeavouring to discharge
our duty to God, will soar on, as rapidly and as boldly in
view of the grave as elsewhere. No terrors shall be able
to divert us; and when grim death himself shall confront
us, we will look him boldly in the face, with a consciousness
that we leave something behind which cannot be
pierced by his javelin, and which will cause our names to be
remembered by succeeding generations.”

“Ah, Ned! sometimes I am ready to believe the struggle
will be in vain. Who, but you and a few others, will
ever know of the existence of—no matter! If it be

even so, still the delights of composition, the glorious anticipations,
the felicitous dreams, I have enjoyed, will have
been a compensation—perhaps, at last, the only recompense
of the author, who may not be conscious after death
of either praise or censure.”

“Banish such forebodings, Charles!” said Ned, making
an effort to smile. “Tell me, now, your opinion of the
fair Elgiva. You have seen her, and heard the music of
her voice. But I remember you would have her sing none
but sad and plaintive songs.”

“Was it so?” replied Charles, a gleam of animation
illuminating his features, like a ray of sepulchral torchlight
thrown across the stained glass of a gothic window.
“I fear very much that I became ridiculous in her eyes.
My thoughts were strangely absent that night. And when
I discovered it was Elgiva who had strewn the flowers over
the grave of Viola, I could not repress my emotions, and I
am apprehensive lest—lest—”

“What, Charles?”

“Did you not hear her say she always found flowers
placed there by some one else, whom she could never detect
in the act?”

“I did.”

“Well, it is a secret and a mystery, which I may confide
to you before I leave this place. The time when I
shall make the disclosure must be chosen by myself.”

“I will not seek to precipitate it.”

“I know you will not, my friend—almost my only
friend. But Elgiva! She did not despise me, as I have
cause to know. But she must have seen that I was not
fitted for the society of the gay world. Her respect—her
esteem—her favourable recollection, after—is all I hope
for or desire. And she will not contemn me. I know it!
What think you? Her carriage drove past here yesterday,
and a bouquet was thrown from the window! It was not
for the lover, Ned; no! don't smile in that manner—but
for the poet!”

“And that is not the only tribute the poet has had,”
said Ned, placing the review in Montague's hands.

“What! What is this? A notice of my poem!” The
young man, with a convulsive grasp and a trembling frame,

removed his chair to the most distant window, and perused
the article in silence, while Ned gazed with interest at his
excited, and classically beautiful face.

“Have you read it, Ned?” cried Montague, rising, in
great exultation. “It is just; it is true; it is generous
and noble! The writer is possessed of the true genius,
and is a poet himself, for the passages he quotes, as the
most worthy of admiration, are the ones which were deemed
the most felicitous by the author. Who has done this? I
did not deem any of the critics of this mercenary epoch
capable of bestowing so much time and labour upon an obscure
poet, whatever his merits might be!”

“You see, then,” said Ned, with as much gravity as he
could command, “that one should never despair, so long
as he deems himself capable of success. Sooner or later
merit has its reward. If long delayed, like capital well
invested, the accumulated interest will come with the principal.
And a moment of substantial triumph is ample
compensation for a year of labour and painful delay.”

“True, Ned. And believe me, that nothing short of
the celestial bliss I hope for, could surpass the enjoyment
I now experience. But who wrote it? Hold! I know!”

“Who?”

“Mark Mayfield!”

“Mark Mayfield! Who is he?” asked Ned, slightly
turning aside his face, to hide the blush he felt mantling
his forehead.

“Here! here!” continued Montague, not at all observing
his friend, but pointing to certain expressions in the
review with one hand, while he sought one or two passages
in a handsomely bound duodecimo volume on the table.
“Yes, the same mind dictated, the same hand traced them
both! Who is this Mark Mayfield? His book was sent
me the other day by my employer. I read it, admired it,
and wrote a strongly commendatory notice of it, a portion
of which was suppressed by the publisher, in consequence
solely, as he states himself, of its unusual length,
and to make room for a profitable advertisement. But
excuse me, Ned. Let me read the review again. The
reviewer says something about the genuine emanations of
genius being tardily appreciated, and that Shakespeare himself

attracted no especial wonder while he lived. Read my
notice of `The Dishonoured,' Ned, while I peruse this review
again.” Saying this, Montague approached the
window once more, while Ned himself, with trembling
hand, seized the paper containing the notice of his own
book, and retreated to the other window. A profound
silence ensued. It was the hush of a moment too blissful
for expression; and could an artist have beheld the young
authors as they traced the praises of their works on the
printed pages before them, he would have been assailed by
an irresistible impulse to sketch the multiform phases of
their excited countenances.

“Charles!” at length exclaimed the novelist, rising,
“You see before you Mark Mayfield, himself. And your
conjecture was correct. I am the author of the review.”

“Several times I suspected it! Oh, Ned!” cried the
grateful poet, throwing his arms around the neck of his
friend. “It was kind in you. But you have not misrepresented
me. A time will come when candid minds will admit
you did me no more than justice. My only regret is that
the publication has not so great a circulation as some of
the more popular magazines; but then the publishers having
their hundreds of thousands of subscribers might not, in
all probability, have inserted your article. Oh, it is a fearful
struggle to clamber up the cliffs of fame! Almost
every hand that might aid, is against you, until, at last,
when opposition can no longer retard your determined progress,
nor the harsh neglect of significant silence produce
despair, the voice of commendation assumes a unanimity
which, in turn, is often but slightly estimated by
the successful author. The reason is that the encomiums
are withheld when they might be the most beneficial—delayed
when hoped for, and finally despaired of, until the
indomitable mind of the aspirant has created a constituency
of its own, a growing community of appreciating
readers, who seize upon his productions as they issue from
the press, irrespective of the indices of the critics.”

“Such will be your triumph, my friend,” said Ned.

No. At least I shall not survive to enjoy it. But I
may anticipate it. I may innocently imagine a time will
come when my name will be referred to with approbation

and respect. My name! No matter!” Montague ceased
abruptly, while a momentary shade of gloom passed over
his brow.

“But, Charles, you did not know, you did not even
suspect, that you were praising your friend, when commending
my book. And in truth I did not myself know
it had been issued until to-day.”

“What I have said of it is true. It will live, because it
is true to nature.”

“It could not be otherwise. While writing it I was
cultivating Susan's garden. It grew with the plants and
flowers. When wearied with the pen I laboured with the
spade and the hoe; and as the blossoms expanded my
ideas reflected the hues of nature. Ah, Charles, it is a
blessed, excitable, debilitating occupation; and I feel that
I am embarked in it for life. Although I have not yet
experience the obstacles to success you have so truthfully
described, I shall be prepared for them, and will not be
deterred by them.”

“You have physical and mental energies combined, and
have not permitted your spirit to be stirred by the subjects
of your thoughts. It is well. It is well. Hold your powers
in reserve for the termination of the race. For me, my
race is ended. I can write no more—”

“No more, Charles!”

“No more for posterity. The volcano in my bosom is
exhausted. It was wrong—but my frame was too weak to
restrain my soul. There is now a coldness in my heart.
There may be a change—but I must not look for it. But
the author of “The Dishonoured” is in the beginning of
his career—”

“Why, Charles, you are my junior!”

“In years—but not in life. May yours be many and
happy!”

“I beseech you, Charles, dismiss these mournful presentiments.
You will live to enjoy the applause you have
deserved.”

“Ned, here is a volume of my poems. Give it to
Elgiva. But do not say I sent it—at least not until she
has read it.”

“I will do so. And I shall make bold to give her a

copy of my book at the same time, and resolve to brave
either her commendation or censure. My spirits are buoyant.
I feel that I have resources sufficient to withstand
the assaults—”

“Have you?” said Charles, smiling, and placing in the
hand of his friend a copy of a daily journal published in
New York, containing some captious strictures on the
merits of “The Dishonoured.” It had been sent him by
his publisher, as a hint that he should not be too ready to
bestow extravagant praise on a book merely because it
suited his own taste, before he saw what others said of it.

“That is malicious!” said Ned, dashing down the journal.
“He assails without showing what he condemns, that his
readers may judge of the justice of the condemnation. It
is ill-natured—envious—”

“Do not be annoyed by it, Ned,” said Montague, still
smiling. “I know the writer. He has recently produced
a book himself which, I believe, was a failure, in spite of
the most extraordinary efforts to keep it alive; and I have
since observed that he invariably sneers at the productions
of others whose reputations are supposed to be within the
reach of his shafts.”

“Who is he?” cried Ned, turning over the pages. “Is
it possible! Shallow Skimmer! I have told you, Charles,
of his efforts in behalf of my romance—this identical
work!”

“I recollect. You did him a favour. With minds like
his, benefits received are often thus repaid. But the title
was changed, and he may not have known you were the
author.”

“The characters in the work, and the events, were not
changed. Not a sentence in the whole has been altered
since he saw it in manuscript!”

“The critics do not always read the books they approve
or condemn.”

“So I have been told. Yet they must glance at a few
pages. He certainly did read the first chapters before
they were in print. It cannot be that he was ignorant of
the fact that it was the same book, and that I was the
author—”

“Be composed, Ned. It is my turn to cheer you. You

know it was the merits of the book, not the partiality of
the friend, which should have guided his pen; and they do
seem to have guided it with a vengeance!”

“Why he says some expressions in it are immoral and
irreligious! Of course some of the characters are bad;
both vicious and impious. And for this reason he cannot
recommend it! Charles! when your hypocritical moral
writers use the garb of piety to attract the attention of the
good, and to derive benefit from their patronage, it is, in
my humble opinion, taking the name of God in vain, and
that too in the most offensive manner in which it can be
done!”

“I agree with you. Therefore do not permit this censor's
jeers to annoy you. Even his opposition will be a benefit.
There may be those who will have reason to conclude that
this Skimmer has done you injustice, and they will be
stimulated to undertake the defence of your book!”

It was late when the young men separated. The whippoorwill
and the katydid were singing, and the stars were
illuminating the whole expanse of heaven.