in him and spare him for the same sweet sake."
My young lady continued to look at me in
confusion and mistrust,
and the result of her reflexion on what I had just said was to make
her suddenly break out: "Look here, sir - what's the matter with
him?"
"The matter with him is that if he doesn't look out people will eat
a great hole in his life."
She turned it over. "He hasn't any disfigurement?"
"Nothing to speak of!"
"Do you mean that social engagements
interfere with his
occupations?"
"That but
feebly expresses it."
"So that he can't give himself up to his beautiful imagination?"
"He's beset, badgered, bothered - he's pulled to pieces on the
pretext of being applauded. People expect him to give them his
time, his golden time, who wouldn't themselves give five shillings
for one of his books."
"Five? I'd give five thousand!"
"Give your
sympathy - give your
forbearance. Two-thirds of those
who approach him only do it to
advertise themselves."
"Why it's too bad!" the girl exclaimed with the face of an angel.
"It's the first time I was ever called crude!" she laughed.
I followed up my
advantage. "There's a lady with him now who's a
terrible
complication, and who yet hasn't read, I'm sure, ten pages
he ever wrote."
My visitor's wide eyes grew tenderer. "Then how does she talk - ?"
"Without ceasing. I only mention her as a single case. Do you
want to know how to show a superlative
consideration? Simply avoid
him."
"Avoid him?" she despairingly breathed.
"Don't force him to have to take
account of you; admire him in
silence,
cultivate him at a distance and
secretlyappropriate his
message. Do you want to know," I continued,
warming to my idea,
"how to perform an act of
homage really sublime?" Then as she hung
on my words: "Succeed in never
seeing him at all!"
"Never at all?" - she suppressed a
shriek for it.
"The more you get into his writings the less you'll want to, and
you'll be
immensely sustained by the thought of the good you're
doing him."
She looked at me without
resentment or spite, and at the truth I
had put before her with
candour,
credulity, pity. I was afterwards
happy to remember that she must have gathered from my face the
liveliness of my interest in herself. "I think I see what you
mean."
"Oh I express it badly, but I should be
delighted if you'd let me
come to see you - to explain it better."
She made no
response to this, and her
thoughtful eyes fell on the
big album, on which she
presently laid her hands as if to take it
away. "I did use to say out West that they might write a little
less for autographs - to all the great poets, you know - and study
the thoughts and style a little more."
"What do they care for the thoughts and style? They didn't even
understand you. I'm not sure," I added, "that I do myself, and I
dare say that you by no means make me out."
She had got up to go, and though I wanted her to succeed in not
seeing Neil Paraday I wanted her also, inconsequently, to remain in
the house. I was at any rate far from desiring to
hustle her off.
As Mrs. Weeks Wimbush,
upstairs, was still saving our friend in her
own way, I asked my young lady to let me
brieflyrelate, in
illustration of my point, the little
incident of my having gone
down into the country for a
profane purpose and been converted on
the spot to
holiness. Sinking again into her chair to listen she
showed a deep interest in the
anecdote. Then thinking it over
gravely she returned with her odd intonation: "Yes, but you do see
him!" I had to admit that this was the case; and I wasn't so
prepared with an
effective attenuation as I could have wished. She
eased the situation off, however, by the
charming quaintness with
which she finally said: "Well, I wouldn't want him to be lonely!"
This time she rose in
earnest, but I persuaded her to let me keep
the album to show Mr. Paraday. I
assured her I'd bring it back to
her myself. "Well, you'll find my address somewhere in it on a