CHAPTER XX

It was slightly disheartening to perceive how many other assistant-editors were open to offers, and he had the uncomfortable consciousness that his competitors' experience was probably a great deal wider than his own. He knew that a daily was out of the question for him, and his chance of securing a post on a periodical seemed scarcely better on Monday morning, when he saw the "Wanted" columns. Cynthia declared that his own advertisement "read nicer than any in the list" and that if she were an editor it would certainly be the one to attract her attention; but Cynthia was his wife and not an editor, and her view encouraged him no more than Sam Walford's supposition at the breakfast table, that he might "obtain the management of a sound magazine."

He went in the evening to Soho, and Cornelia's successor, in opening the door, told him that Turquand had returned. The journalist was at the table, writing furiously, and Kent declined to interrupt him more than he had already done by entering. Turquand indicated the cupboard where the whisky was kept; and, picking up a special edition, Kent sat silent until the other laid down his pen.

"_That's_ off my chest!" said Turquand, looking up after twenty minutes. "Well, my Parisian, how do you carry yourself? Do you still speak English?"

"I can still say 'thanks' in English," answered Kent. "I was devilish obliged to you, old chap. Here's your oof."

"Rot!" said Turquand. "Have you been popping anything to get it?"

"The popping took place before I wrote you. Don't be an ass; I couldn't take the things out, even if I kept it. Go on; don't play the fool! Well, I've had some bad quarters of an hour in the pleasant land of France, I can tell you."

"That's what I want you to do," said Turquand. "Let's hear all about it. What do you think of that whisky? Half a crown, my boy; my latest discovery! I think it's damned good myself."

He listened to the recital with an occasional smile, and somehow, now the trouble was past, many of the circumstances displayed a comic side to the narrator. What was quite destitute of humour was the present, and when they fell to discussing this, both men were glum.

"I suppose you haven't been able to do anything with the novel?" Kent asked. "Has it made the round yet, or does a publisher remain who hasn't seen it?"

"It came back last week from Shedlock and Archer. Oh yes, publishers remain. It's at Thurgate and Tatham's now; I packed it off to them on Friday. Farqueharsen was no use; I tried him, as you asked; he rejected it in a few days. I wrote you that, didn't I?"

"You did communicate the gratifying intelligence. Where has it been?"

Turquand produced a pocket-book.

"Farqueharsen, Rowland Ellis, Shedlock and Archer," he announced. "I must enter 'Thurgate and Tatham.' I dare say you'll place it somewhere in the long-run; we haven't exhausted the good firms yet. By-the-bye, the front page has got a bit dilapidated; you'd better copy that out and restore the air of virgin freshness when Thurgate sends it home."

"You expect he will, then?"

"I don't know what to expect, you seem so infernally unlucky with it. For the life of me, I don't know why it wasn't taken by Cousins, in the first instance. I looked it through again the other night, and I consider it's--I don't want to butter you, but I consider it's great work; by Jove, I do!"

Kent glowed; he felt, as he had done all along, that it was the best of which he was capable, and praise of it was very dear to him, even though the praise was a friend's.

"I say, you know about your wife's aunt, I suppose?" said Turquand. "What do you think of her?"

"She has left the Walfords, you mean? Who told _you_?"

"Miss Wix told me. But I didn't mean that departure; I meant her other one."

"Not heard of any other departure of the lady's. What? Where's she gone?"

"She has gone to journalism," said Turquand, with a grin; "the fair Miss Wix is a full-blown journalist! Don't your wife's people know? She's keeping it dark then. She came to see me, and said her income was slightly inadequate, and she 'thought she could do some writing.' Wanted to know if I could put her in the way of anything."

"Get out!" scoffed Kent. "Did she really come to see you, though? Very improper of her!"

"Oh, Miss Wix and I always took to each other. I think she dislikes me less than anybody she knows. I'm not kidding you; it's true, honour bright."

"What, that she's writing?"

Turquand nodded. His face was preternaturally solemn, but his eyes twinkled.

"I got her the work," he said; "it just happened I knew of a vacancy."

"Well, upon my soul!" exclaimed Humphrey. "I wish you'd get some for me. Doesn't it just happen that you know of another?"

"Ah! you aren't so easy to accommodate. Miss Wix is a maiden, and her exes aren't large. She gets a guinea a week, and is affluent with it. It's a beautiful publication, sonny--a journal for young gals--and it sells like hot cakes. I tell you, _The Outpost_ would give its ears for such a circulation."

Kent stared at him incredulously.

"A journal for young girls?" he echoed. "The acrimonious Wix? Is this a fact, or delirium tremens?"

"Fact, I swear. She does the Correspondence page; she's been on it a fortnight now. She's 'Aunt' something--I forget what, at the moment --they're always 'Aunt' something on that kind of paper. The young gals write and ask her questions on their personal affairs. One of 'em says she is desperately in love with a gentleman of her own age--seventeen--and isn't it time he told her his intentions, as his 'manner is rather like that of a lover'; and another inquires if 'marriage between first cousins once removed is punishable by law.' She calls them her nieces, and says, 'No, my dear _Plaintive Girlie_; I do not think you need despair because the gentleman of your own age has not avowed his feelings yet. A true lover is shy in the presence of his queen; but, with gentle encouragement on your part, all will be well. I was so glad to have your sweet letter.'"

"Miss Wix?"

"Miss Wix, yes. Her comforting reply to _Changed Pansy_ the first week was a master-piece. Must have bucked _Changed Pansy_ up a lot. And occasionally she has to invent a letter from a mercenary mother and admonish her. The admonishments of mercenary mothers are; estimated to sell fifteen thousand alone. You should buy a copy; it's on all the bookstalls."

"Buy it!" said Humphrey; "I'd buy it if it cost a shilling. What's it called? Well, I'm not easily astonished, but Miss Wix comforting _Changed Pansy_ would stagger the Colossus of Rhodes. Does she like the work?"

"'Like' it? My boy, she execrates it--sniffs violently, and gets stiff in the back, whenever the stuff is mentioned. That's the cream of the whole affair. The disgust of that envenomed spinster as she sits ladling out gush to romantic schoolgirls makes me shake in the night. I've got her name now! She's 'Auntie Bluebell.' 'Auntie Bluebell's Advice to Our Readers'; _Winsome Words_, One penny weekly."

Kent himself began to shake, and but that the bookstalls were shut when he took his leave, he would have borne a copy home. He told the news to Cynthia, and she laughed so much that Sam Walford, underneath, turned on his pillow, and remarked gruffly to Louisa that he didn't know what Cynthia and Humphrey had got to be so lively about, he was sure, considering their circumstances, and that he was afraid Humphrey was "a damn improvident bohemian."

Their mirth was short-lived, unfortunately. The first advertisement was productive of no result; and the solitary communication received after the appearance of the second was a circular from a typewriting office. The outlook now was as desperate as before the post on _The World and his Wife_ turned up, and their pecuniary position was even worse than then. When they had been at Strawberry Hill a week, too, the warmth of the Walfords' manner towards their son-in-law had perceptibly decreased; and though Kent did not comment on the difference in his conferences with Cynthia, he knew that she was conscious of it by her acquiescing when he asserted that they had been here long enough.

At this stage he would have taken a clerkship gladly if it carried a salary sufficing for their needs; and after they had returned to Leamington Road, and had temporised with the landlord, and sold a wedding present for some taxes, and were living on credit from the tradespeople, he began to debate whether the wisest thing he could do wouldn't be to drown himself and relieve Cynthia's necessities with the money from his life policy.

The idea, which primarily presented itself as an extravagance, came, by reason of the frequency with which it recurred to him, to be revolved quite soberly; he wondered if Cynthia would grieve much, and if, when his boy could understand, she would talk to him of his "papa," or provide him with a stepfather. He did not, in these conjectures as to the post-mortem proceedings, lose sight of _The Eye of the Beholder_ and devoutly he trusted that it would see the light after he was dead, and make so prodigious a stir that the names of the publishers who had refused it were held up to obloquy and scorn.

He was walking through Victoria Street towards the station one afternoon, and mentally lying in his grave while the world wept for him, when he was brought to an abrupt standstill by a greeting. He roused himself to realities with a start, and found that the white-gloved hand that waited to be taken by him belonged to Mrs. Deane-Pitt.

"How d'ye do, Mr. Kent? Are you trying to cut me?"

"I beg your pardon, I didn't see! It's awfully stupid of me; I'm always passing people like that."

"You've returned, then! For good?"

"Oh yes; we live in town, you know--in the suburbs, at least."

"You told me," she smiled. "'Battersea.'"

"So I did. 'Battersea' is Streatham, but that's a detail."

The mechanicalness of his utterance passed, and animation leapt back in him as he recovered from his surprise. The sun was shining and her sequins were iridescent. She was wearing violets. His impression embraced the trifles with a confused sense that they made a delightful whole--the smart, smiling woman in the sunshine, the purple of the flowers, and the warmth of her familiar tones.

"So you come to Victoria every day, and you haven't been to see me!" she said. "When did you leave Paris?"

"I--I've done nothing. Of course you know _The World and his Wife_ is dead, Mrs. Deane-Pitt? When did I leave? Oh, soon after the funeral."

"I trust you've recovered from the bereavement," she laughed. "Are you on anything here?"

"Not yet. Editors are so blind to their own interests."

"Well----!" She put out her hand again, and repeated her number. "When will you come in? I'm nearly always at home about five. Good-bye; I'm going to the Army and Navy, and I shall be late."

Kent continued his way cheerfully. The brief interchange of conventionalities had diverted his thoughts, and his glimpse of this woman who took her debts with a shrug, and had candidly adapted her ideals to her requirements till the former had all gone, acted as a fillip to him. She typified success, of a kind, and in a minute he had seemed to acquire something of her own vigour. It made him happy, also, to observe that the manner of their parting had had no sequel; and, in recalling the mood in which he had walked through the Champs Elysées, he decided that he had been extremely stupid to attach so much importance to it. She was an agreeable woman towards whom his feeling was a friendship that he had once been in danger of exaggerating; he would certainly call upon her at the first opportunity! It was quite possible that she might be able to tell him something useful too.

Before he fulfilled his intention, however, an unlooked-for development occurred. The office of the agent who had endeavoured to find a tenant for him was on the road to the station, and a day or two later the man ran out after him and asked if he was still willing to let No. 64. Kent replied shortly that the opportunity had presented itself too late; but after he passed on he reflected. The house was wanted at once by some Americans who had considered it previously. They now made an offer of three and a half guineas a week for a period of six or twelve months. It appeared to Kent that he had been very idiotic in dismissing the suggestion off-hand. With three and a half guineas a week, less the rent and taxes, he could send Cynthia to the country for a few months, which was exactly what she stood in need of; and though he could not leave London himself, he could shift alone somewhere till he found a berth and she rejoined him.

Cynthia and he discussed the idea lengthily. She was opposed to the separation, but she agreed that it would be very unwise of them to refuse to let the house. She said that they might all live together in apartments on the money; fresh air and peace would be delicious if Kent were with her, but she thought that she would rather stay with him in London than go away by herself.

This point was debated a good deal. There was much against it. It was absurd to deny that their anxieties, and the restraint imposed by her charge of the baby, had told upon her health; in a little village where living was cheap she would not only recover her roses--as soon as he earned a trifle she could have a nursemaid. If they took lodgings together, on the other hand, they must be reconciled to going to a suburb--and a suburb would be twice as expensive as the country. By himself, Humphrey could get a top bedroom in Bloomsbury for the same sum that he now spent on third-class railway tickets.

The logic was inexorable, and the only further question to decide was where she should go. She recollected that a few years back Miss Wix had been sent to a cottage at Monmouth to re-coup after an attack of influenza. The spinster had spoken very highly of it all--the picturesque surroundings, the attention she had received, and the cosy accommodation. If Miss Wix praised it, there could be little to complain of, surely? As to the terms, Cynthia knew that they had been ridiculously low. She determined to write to her aunt and ask if she remembered the address.

On second thoughts, though, she said she must ask her in person. She had not paid her a visit yet, nor had Kent, and an inquiry by post wouldn't do at all. They went the following morning, having looked in on the agent, and informed him that they were prepared to accept the offer, and to give up possession at the end of the week. The payments, of course, were to be made monthly in advance.

Miss Wix lodged in Hunter Street, and they found that in her improved circumstances she boasted two rooms. The parlour that she had acquired was furnished chiefly with a large round table, a number of Berlin-wool antimacassars, and a waxwork bouquet under a flyblown shade; and at the table, which was strewn with letters, the spinster had been sourly engaged upon her "Advice" for _Winsome Words_. She welcomed them politely, and offered to have some tea made if they would like it, but, as it was one o'clock, they said that they weren't thirsty. The request for a five-years-old address evidently perturbed her very much; but after a rummage behind the folding doors, she emerged with it, and, to mollify her, Cynthia referred again to her journalism and reiterated congratulations.

"Mr. Turquand told Humphrey, or we should never have known, Aunt Emily. Why have you kept it so quiet? We were delighted by the news; I think it is very clever of you indeed."

"There is nothing to be delighted about. I kept it quiet because I did not wish it known--a very sufficient reason. Mr. Turquand is much too talkative."

"I think you ought to be very proud," said Kent--"a lady journalist! May I--am I allowed to look at some of the copy?"

"As I can't prevent you seeing it whenever you like to spend a penny," said Miss Wix bitterly, "it would be mere mockery to prevent you now."

"You underrate your public," he murmured. "_Winsome Words_ has an enormous circulation, I hear?"

"Among chits," exclaimed the spinster, with sudden wrath--"among chits and fools. Smack 'em and put 'em in an asylum! If you want to, then, read it aloud. Cynthia shall hear what I have to do in order to live. If Louisa weren't your mother, my dear, I'd say that it's a greater shame to her than to me. I would! If she weren't your mother, that's what I'd say."

"Well, let's have a look," said Humphrey quickly. "Where is it? Now, then--what's this? Oh, _Miserable Maidie_! 'Yours is indeed a sad story, _Miserable Maidie_, because you seem to have no one to turn to for help and counsel. I am so glad you resolved to come to your Auntie Bluebell and tell her all about it. So you and your lover have parted in anger, and now you are heartbroken, and would give worlds to have him back? Ah, my dear, I can feel for you! It's the old, old story----'"

"That'll do," snapped Miss Wix. "'The old, old story'? My word, I'd 'old story' the sickly little imbecile if I had her here!" She sat bolt upright, her eyes darting daggers, and her pink-tipped nose disdainful. "Haven't you had enough of it yet? What do you think of me?"

"I think with respect of anyone who can earn a salary," said Kent. "I see there's one to _Anxious Parent_. May I glance at your advice to _Anxious Parent_? 'My dear friend, were you I never young yourself? And didn't you love your little Ermyntrude's papa? If so, you can certainly feel for two young things who rightly believe that love is more valuable than a good settlement. Let them wed as they wish, and be thankful that Ermyntrude is going to have a husband against whom you can urge no other objection than that he is unable to support her.'"

"I'm a sensible woman, Cynthia," said Miss Wix, quivering; "and for me to have to write that incomes don't matter, and sign myself 'Auntie Bluebell,' is heavy at your mother's door."

Her mortification was so evidently genuine that Kent gave her back her copy, with replies to A Lover of "_Winsome Words_" and _Constant Daffodil_ unread, and as soon as was practicable he and Cynthia rose and made their adieux. The apartments in the cottage proved to be vacant, and as the references of the American family were satisfactory, and the inventory was taken without delay, there was nothing in the way of the migration being effected by the suggested date. Cynthia had proposed that her husband should try to obtain his old bedroom at Turquand's, where he could have the run of a sitting-room for nothing, and this idea was adopted with the approval of all concerned. Humphrey saw her off at Paddington, and, kissing her affectionately, told her to "Make haste and get strong." And the close of a week, which had opened without a hint of such developments, saw Cynthia living with her baby in Monmouth, and Kent reinstalled in his bachelor quarters in Soho.