"You shall have it by-and-by," answered the lawyer; "all in good time."
And now first they learned that not a penny of the money would they
receive before the end of a twelvemonth.
"Well, that will give us plenty of time to die first," thought Hector,
"which I am sure the kind lady did not intend when she left us the
money."
Another thing they learned was that, even then, they would not receive
the whole of the money left them, for seeing they could claim no
relation to the legator, ten per cent must be deducted from their
legacy. If they came to him in a year from the date of her death, he
told them he would have much pleasure in handing them the sum of four
hundred and fifty pounds.
So they left the office--not very exultant, for they were both rather
hungry, and had to go at once in search of work--with but a poor chance
of borrowing upon it.
Nevertheless, Hector broke the silence by saying:
"I declare, Annie, I feel so light and free already that I could invent
anything, even a fairy tale, and I feel as if it would be a lovely one.
I hope you have a penny left to buy a new bottle of ink. The ink at home
is so thick it takes three strokes to one mark."
"Yes, dear, I have a penny; I have two, indeed--just twopence left. We
shall buy a bottle of ink with one, and--shall it be a bun with the
other? I think one penny bun will divide better than two halfpenny
ones."
"Very well. Only, mind, _I'm_ to divide it. But, do you know, I've
been thinking," said Hector, "whether we might not take a holiday on the
strength of our expectations, for we shall have so long to wait for the
money that I think we may truly say we have _great_ expectations."
"I think we should do better," answered Annie, "to go back to your old
friend, Mr. Gillespie, and tell him of our good-fortune, and see whether
he can suggest anything for us to do in the meantime."
Hector agreed, and together they sought the terrace where Mr. and Mrs.
Gillespie lived, who were much interested in their story; and then first
they learned that the lady was at least well enough off to be able to
help them, and, when they left, she would have Annie take with her a
dozen of her handkerchiefs, to embroider with her initials and crest;
but Annie begged to be allowed to take only one, that Mrs. Gillespie
might first see how she liked her work.
"For, then, you see," she said to her husband, as they went home, "I
shall be able to take it back to her this very evening and ask her for
the half-crown she offered me for doing it, which I should not have had
the face to do with eleven more of them still in my possession. I have
no doubt of her being satisfied with my work; and in a week I shall have
finished the half of them, and we shall be getting on swimmingly."
Throughout the winter Hector wrote steadily every night, and every night
Annie sat by his side and embroidered--though her embroidery was not
_all_ for other people. Many a time in after years did their
thoughts go back to that period as the type of the happy life they were
having together.
The next time Hector went to see Mr. Gillespie, that gentleman suggested
that he should give a course of lectures to ladies upon English Poetry,
beginning with the Anglo-Saxon poets, of whom Gillespie said he knew
nothing, but would be glad to learn a great deal. He knew also, he said,
some ladies in the neighborhood willing to pay a guinea each for a
course of, say, half-a-dozen such lectures. They would not cost Hector
much time to prepare, and would at once bring in a little money.
Coleridge himself, he suggested, had done that kind of thing.
"Yes," said Hector, "but he was Coleridge. I have nothing to say worth
saying."
"Leave your hearers to judge of that," returned Gillespie. "Do your
best, and take your chance. I promise you two pupils at least not
over-critical--my wife and myself. It is amazing how little those even
who imagine they love it know about English poetry."
"But where should I find a room?" Hector still objected.
"Would not this drawing room do?" asked his friend.
"Splendidly!" answered Hector. "But what will Mrs. Gillespie say to it?"
"She and I are generally of one mind--about people, at least."
"Then I will go home at once and set about finding what to say."
"And I will go out at once and begin hunting you up an audience."
Gillespie succeeded even better than he had anticipated; and there was
at the first lecture a very fair gathering indeed. When it was over, the
one that knew most of the subject was the young lecturer's wife. The
first course was followed by two more, the third at the request of
almost all his hearers. And the result; was that, before the legacy fell
due, Annie had paid all their debts and had not contracted a single new
one.
But when the happy day dawned Annie was not able to go with her husband
to receive the money; neither did Hector wish that she had been able,
for he was glad to go alone. By her side lay a lovely woman-child
peacefully asleep. Hector declared her the very image of the child the
rainbow left behind as it vanished.
One day, when the mother was a little stronger, she called Hector to her
bedside, and playfully claimed the right to be the child's godmother,
and to give it her name.
"And who else can have so good a right?" answered Hector. Yet he
wondered just a little that Annie should want the child named after
herself, and not after her mother.
But when the time for the child's baptism came, Annie, who would hold
the little one herself, whispered in the ear of the clergyman:
"The child's name is Iris."
I have told my little story. But perhaps my readers will have patience
with me while I add just one little inch to the tail of the mouse my
mountain has borne.
Hector's next book, although never so popular as in any outward sense to
be called a success, yet was not quite a failure even in regard to the
money it brought him, and even at the present day has not ceased to
bring in something. Doubtless it has faults not a few, but, happily, the
man who knows them best is he who wrote it, and he has never had to
repent that he did write it. And now he has an audience on which he can
depend to welcome whatever he writes. That he has enemies as well goes
without saying, but they are rather scorners than revilers, and they
have not yet caused him to retaliate once by criticising any work of
theirs. Neither, I believe, has he ever failed to recognize what of
genuine and good work most of them have produced. One of the best
results to himself of his constant endeavor to avoid jealousy is that he
is still able to write verse, and continues to take more pleasure in it
than in telling his tales. And still his own test of the success of any
of his books is the degree to which he enjoyed it himself while writing
it.
His legacy has long been spent, and he has often been in straits since;
but he has always gathered good from those straits, and has never again
felt as if slow walls were closing in upon him to crush him. And he has
hopes by God's help, and with Annie's, of getting through at last,
without ever having dishonored his high calling.
The last time I saw him, he introduced his wife to me--having just been
telling me his and her story--with the rather enigmatical words:
"This is my wife. You cannot see her very well, for, like Hamlet, I wear
her 'in my heart's core, aye, in my heart of hearts!'"
