Did he deserve it?

Chapter I

John Moucell, Esq., lived in South Lambeth ; no one exactly knew how. At the end of each year certainly no one could have told less accurately than himself how rent, rates, taxes, had been met and a horde of ravening creditors satisfied. Of two things, however, he felt quite convinced, viz. that not a man in England worked harder, and that no canal horse was worse treated. This was his normal state of mind. When worldly affairs ran pretty smoothly, which they did on rare occasions, he said, " The age of miracles is not past." Nevertheless, he looked well, slept well. People meeting him in society never imagined he found life a hard struggle ; and yet in truth such was the case. When a man, who has no income derivable from the sweet security of Consols or any other security, is the proud father of nine living children, all doing nothing and all costing money, existence must needs B be a struggle, and it spoke well for his courage and industry that the weary story of never-ending, always beginning difficulties was not graven on his face.

The world, generally given to take good views of things, called him a " literary man." In reality he was a " literary hack." At five-and-twenty he had, like many another, great expectations ; at four-and-forty he thought he under stood where, when, and why he " ran off the rails " and spoilt his life. It was a woman, of course. It always is a man or a woman who changes for good or for evil some person's life — a fact the less extraordinary when we remember there are but men and women in the world, and not about a thousand different sexes, as we might be sometimes tempted to imagine. At five-and-twenty most men, whether wise or foolish, are imaginative and speculative. At four and-forty all men not fools are philosophic. Mr. Moucell was not a fool, and consequently philosophic. " It might have been worse," he reflected, when considering the wreck he had made of his future.

" She was utterly respectable." Yes, utterly respectable, and fond and foolish into the bargain ; and in his heart of hearts — if, indeed the daily grind of life had left him any heart at all Mr. Moucell still kept a lingering love memory of the meek, blue-eyed, fair-haired girl he wooed and married when " all the world vvas young." According to Mr. Moucell, the founder of his family had come to England with the Conqueror — a state ment hard to prove, perhaps, but harder still to disprove, because, as one non-believer in the literary man's high lineage judicially observed when summing up the pros and cons, " a lot of rank-and-file, besides camp followers and such like, must have landed here with William." Poor Mr. Moucell never heard this nasty remark, any more than he heard another, even more dis paraging, namely — that " it was all tommy-rot about the Normans ; the family name was Mussel, and they came originally from Billingsgate."

There must be some sort of foundation even for a lie, so very likely the Moucell legend had been built upon more than a shadow of truth. History held no record of the name ; but names in the course of nigh upon a thousand years change. It was said that just as people lose luggage when travelling, or small household goods during the progress of a "flitting," so the Moucells had by some means, while rushing through many centuries, got rid of a " de," if not a " la," and certainly were robbed of a final " e." Mr. Moucell often spoke sadly of those " pilferings by the way," but when asked by his children why he did not repair them, replied he had thought of doing so, but it was an awkward course to take " in the event of any property re-verting to the family." After much research he had discovered that a Moucell Abbey existed in Henry the VHIth's time, while during the reign of Mary a certain statesman dated letters from Moucel Manor, near York.

What stronger proof of former greatness could reasonable children desire ? None : and so the young Moucells felt the blood which had been flowing for B centuries through the Moucell veins tingle when they thought ofthe broad lands which once, no doubt, were theirs, and which might be theirs again. " Not a question of his breeding, sir," declared a very Radical shopkeeper when talking Mr. Moucell's status over with a somewhat sceptical customer ; "he has such an air with him ; " and the remark was quite true. Mr. Moucell had an air of being much grander and richer and cleverer than was really the case, for spite of all the mud he had toiled through, he never forgot, he never could forget, the days when, but for his own folly, he might have been somebody very well known indeed. Like the scent of the roses celebrated so long ago, that memory "clung to him still," and gave a certain air of distinction to his manner, impossible to describe, but which, for all that, impressed everyone who came in contact with him.

The son of a land agent in Lincolnshire who had the great good luck to live in those fine old times when votes were bought and sold as freely as onions, and fetched much better prices, money was found to give him a sound education, and finally send him to college, where those supposed to know said he was sure to make his mark. The Marquis of Fenland, to whom the elder Moucell had been very useful — " done a lot of dirty work for him " was the discourteous phrase used by political adversaries when speaking of various services rendered — took an interest in the youth which did not cause the Oxford prophets to think less highly of his future prospects. He was asked to Marsh Hall, where being handsome and adaptable, possessed of a good address and a pretty knack of turning out society verses, he won golden opinions and received another invitation and yet another, his good fortune culminating in being selected to accompany Viscount Reedpont on his travels when that delicate heir to the Marshland estates was ordered abroad.

Lord Fenland had his own plans concerning the clever young man when he returned, and Lady Fenland her plans also. She was blessed with a step daughter, whose fortune would be but small, the noble Marquis having put more money into elections than he was ever likelv to get out of them — and the lady consequently nad not gone off matrimonially — indeed, it seemed as if for some reason no one cared to ask her to go at all. Now, Lord Fenland could push on young Moucell if he married the Lady Patricia — push him on very fast indeed ; therefore it was decided between the august couple that when the foreign tour came to an end the other little matter should be put in train. " I think the dear girl likes him," said Lord Fenland. " I am convinced she does," was the answer. " It will be better, perhaps, to throw out no hint on the subject — " This not as a suggestion, but tentatively, in order to ascertain what his more astute wife's views were.

" Unless we wish nothing to come of it," replied the Marchioness, and accordingly silence was the order of the day. But no one can guard against accidents ; and the accident which happened in this case chanced to be ? 6 that John Moucell wrote a book— but a little one, though big enough to wreck a man's life. He had kept a diary while travelling, which he put into more readable form at the last city where the travellers halted, and sold before they reached England. The work was dedicated to Viscount Reedpont; and, beautifully got up, gladdened the eyes of Lord and Lady Fenland almost simultaneously with the sight of their son. Lady Patricia read the book, and, perhaps because she felt much, said little. At all events, her manner struck Mr. Moucell— who, like many other young authors, hungered and thirsted for praise — as cold.

The Lady Patricia had an aunt — her mother's only sister — poor, proud, and even more astute than the Marchioness of Fenland, who, having divined the plan that was on foot, forthwith determined her niece should not wed a " mere writing man," so she mentally styled the distinguished author. When he came to London, therefore, from Marsh Hall, in order to arrange about another book, she asked him often to her house in Hans Place, flattered him to his heart's content, and gave him plenty of opportunities of seeing her companion, poor little Nanny Grey, whose big, innocent eyes soon grew full of love and inexpressible admiration for Viscount Reedpont's clever friend. The rising young man fell into the trap, and, believing that he was old enough, great enough, and strong enough to do what he liked, married Miss Grey, and only realized the mistake he had made when his father sarcastically congratulated him on having contracted an alliance with the daughter of a bankrupt cheesemonger, and forbade him to come home.

That was the beginning ; the parental clarion note heralded a burst of discordant music. "A man must pay for his whistle ; " and if ever a man had to pay for a whistle cunningly placed in his way, it was John Moucell. What a war he waged for years ! What a battle he fought, without friends, without money, without con nection — ay, and often without hope ! He who had once stood with the ball at his foot, stood then burdened only with a fond, helpless wife, who did nothing but bring children into a world which did not want them. Once he had believed himself almost one of the old nobility — and now he was cast out of that earthly paradise ; an author great as Scott or Dickens or Thackeray, and his publisher declined any further offers of MSS. on the ground that neither the beautifully got-up book nor its successor had paid !

On his marriage the Fenlands sent wedding presents — bitter and useless as Dead Sea fruit — but found him no post. Viscount Reedpont called at his poor lodgings and said, emphatically, " I always thought Mrs. Moucell sweetly pretty and as good as gold, and all that, but I am afraid you have made a mess of it, old fellow." Lady Patricia married a wealthy commoner, who in the after-days occasionally asked Mr. Moucell to dinner. Mrs. Moucell's patroness professed to be indignant about the way she had been deceived, and refused at first ever to forgive " poor little Nanny Grey," for the nonce transformed into " that artful minx ; " and, in short, had it not been for ? a widowed aunt of Mrs. Moucell's, the young couple must have starved. But through it all, through poverty, sickness, misfortune, the meanest and hardest of work, John Moucell never forgot his brief glint of sunshine, his happy time of promise, when he lived with the great of the land, and acquired that air which so impressed one Lambeth shopkeeper.

Chapter II

Nearly' nineteen years had elapsed since his ill starred marriage, and John Moucell was living, as has been said, in Lambeth, in one of those excellent though modest-looking houses that still stand just where they did, though The Lawn which they afore time overlooked has been converted into a public park. South Lambeth Road, free of trams, was a quieter and a nicer thoroughfare then than it is likely ever to be again. It had an air of repose which belied reality ; for what with the railway at the back, and rattling cabs and heavy carts in front, noise ceased not by night or day Nevertheless, there was a look of country about the locality that seemed pleasant. The long gardens, divided in many cases by privet hedges, gave an aspect of distance and retirement to the houses ; the fine old trees that had been growing in The Lawn probably ever since the Wandsworth Road was quite out of town— even the grounds sur rounding Beaufoy's manufactory — irresistibly recalled a time when noted people lived within walking dis tance of the City, and the Tradescants, Ashmoles, Needhams, Childs, and many another goodly family resided in the once pleasant suburb where when Elizabeth was Queen, game of all sorts abounded, and rare plants and wild flowers, such as the botanist might now search for in vain, even though he went much further afield, grew like weeds, which in those former days they were accounted.

Mr. Moucell was delighted with the neighbourhood, at all events. Prior to going there it might truly have been said he almost boxed the compass while trying to find a suitable residence in an accessible locality, and it was quite by accident he lit upon that good house at a reasonable rent, in what he considered a desirable position. " The very place for a man who has to live near the newspaper offices ! Why, I consider I am only ten minutes from the Strand and Fleet Street," a figure of speech which meant he was close to Nine Elms Pier — since abandoned — and still closer to Vauxhall Station. "Most convenient," he went on, " for Par liament, theatres, churches, schools, everything." And the house was convenient also — four rooms on the ground floor, four rooms on the first, with a wilderness of basement and plenty of accommodation next the roof.

Garden in rear, where a row of pollard lime trees put out delicate leaves at the first breath of spring, just as if there were no smoke from passing engines and no dust in all the land. The grass grew green there, too, and Virginia creeper climbed over brick walls, and clothed their bareness with vivid emerald tints early in the year, and gorgeous colouring when late autumn heralded the coming of winter. After the narrow dwellings and the pent-up streets in which he had previously perforce lived, Mr. Moucell no doubt did find that roomy house, with its cheerful ? 11 outlook, pleasant ; and though it might be " out of the way " for his friends, it did not prove out of the way for him. It was on a fine morning in September, 1876, that he stood outside the open door of his library — he had taken the back dining-room for a study — talking to Mr. Thomas A. Gerant, junior partner in the well known publishing house of Winstone, Wragge and Wire, Old Bond Street, which had in its day brought out for the delectation of society a larger number of foolish and fashionable novels than any other firm in the kingdom.

Some firms have the knack of flourishing and spreading for a time like gourds — making a great show and apparently occupying a large space in the business world — but being destitute of sufficient root, when any blight or frost touches them they fade away and are gone. It would have fared thus years pre viously with Messrs. Winstone, Wragge and Wire had not Mr. Isaac Gerant, a paper manufacturer, come to the rescue and given them a little longer lease of life than Heaven in its wisdom evidently intended. Whether the readers who formerly cared for the novels issued by the once " enterprising publishers " — see notices of the day — had passed to a land where fiction is unknown, or ceased to take an interest in the sins and virtues of the Upper Ten, must always remain a matter of uncertainty ; only one thing was beyond question, viz. that Messrs. Winstone's business drifted from month to month, and year to year slowly to the bad.

The firm had lived long enough. " Unless fresh blood could be put in, the case was hope less," said the lawyers. Fresh blood meant money, and Mr. Gerant did not feel disposed to let the once popular publishers handle any more of his cash. Fur ther, he was reluctant to lose what he had advanced ; so after a little finessing on both sides, he agreed to arrange with the few creditors who retained some confidence in a sinking concern, and took over the business, worthless old debts, equally worthless stock, and put in " my son Tom " as junior partner. He had placed out other sons in a somewhat similar way — one in a printing business, another as a wholesale stationer, a third at a big bookbinding establishment, which vvas at the time dropping to pieces. " Now I have provided for Tom," he observed, " and with my two eldest in the ' mills,' the deuce is in it if we can't make money somehow."

If " the end crowns the work," Mr. Gerant had good reason to be satisfied, for every one of the gentlemen above referred to is now managing director, at a salary, of his own original business, for the good will of which each received a large amount. The Gerants' experiences were unlike some in which sons bemoan their fate for not having been born before their fathers ! It is impossible for any man to foresee everything ; but Mr. Gerant looked a long way ahead, and matters turned out even better than he hoped. " Tom has a taste for reading," he said, " and I think ought to make a good publisher." Accordingly, when the young man was eight-and twenty he set about trying to put fresh life into the dead bones of Messrs. Winstone and Co.'s late business. He had been toiling at this work for two years when ? 13 Mr. Gerant, senior, chanced to come across Mr. Moucell, who had just written an anonymous pam phlet, entitled " Ready Money : a Fallacy," in which he sought to prove, and did prove, that credit was the life of trade, that credit sent vessels across the ocean, shipped freights, was the cause of England's greatness, the source of her wealth, her safety as a nation, and that all the humbug talked by tradespeople con cerning " payment across the counter " would, if carried into practice, really mean the first nail driven into the coffin enclosing the corpse of commercial success.

No one respected cash on delivery of copy more than Mr. Moucell — a fact Mr. Gerant was destined to learn ; indeed, he wrote some telling articles about that very time in which he stated a publisher had actually spoken of his authors as though they were on the same footing with workmen ; an indignity which served as a good text whereon to found a sermon con cerning the wrongs suffered by literary bees, which sermon wound up by asking why they should be kept waiting for their lawful honey. The pamphlet Mr. Gerant admired, however, was really directed against the Stores, started, as Mr. Moucell pointed out, by, and for the express benefit of, a class of people who drew their incomes from already overburdened taxpayers. It was a theme just to the paper-maker's mind, and he never rested till he found out who the author was, and cemented a friendship with him, the outcome of which resulted in Mr. Moucell being appointed " literary counsel " to the new firm of Winstone, Wragge and Wire.

He was not salaried— but that might come. Meantime he got cheques at irregular intervals, and read and advised, gave the benefit of his long experience, and hoped something permanent would result ; but that could scarcely be expected till trade improved, which publishers said was as bad in the seventies as it had been good in the sixties. Old authors were dying, and the new, who have since astonished mankind, were at that remote period spinning their tops or dressing their dolls, unconscious of the greatness to come. It was a time when a WRITER, spelt with big capitals, would have been received with open arms. Readers were getting tired of former things, and wanted some fresh sensation. " The century is growing old," said Mr. Moucell, " and needs to be amused as well as interested ; " but neither he nor the century expected what has since come.

How thankful Mr. Gerant would have felt had one of the young lions, running tame about London now, rushed into his office, it is impossible to tell. He was weary of mediocrity — of imitators — of men who wrote a long way after Thackeray and Dickens, and affected George Eliot, and tried to copy Lytton. " Oh, for another ' Woman in White ' or an ' Altar and the Hearth ' ! " he exclaimed. " Even a second Lever would be welcome ; and how we should rejoice if anything like — " He was but continuing on the library threshold the conversation that had been going on inside, yet when he pronounced the last word he paused, as though some State secret were in progress, for the sound of a latch-key turning in the lock caught his ear, and next ? 15 moment the front door flew wide, and there stepped into the hall a girl in the full bloom of youth and health, dressed in blue serge trimmed with white, and wearing a sailor hat, who came straight on to where the two men stood, and said, without the slightest embarrassment or self-consciousness, — " How-d'ye-do, Mr. Gerant.

Good morning, father," at the same time first giving the publisher her hand, and then holding up her face for Mr. Moucell to kiss. It was all so pretty, so natural and so homelike, that Mr. Gerant found himself wishing — no, he did not wish he were Mr. Moucell, though he considered that gentleman an extremely fortunate individual. " Have you been out for a morning stroll, Miss Moucell ? " he asked. " Yes — into the City," she answered. " Surely you did not walk all that distance ? " " Indeed, I was only too glad to have the chance I went along the Enbankment, and the river looked beautiful." " Country people would not believe we could grow such roses in London, Mr. Moucell," remarked Mr. Gerant enigmatically — " true damask." The girl understood, and made a little impatient gesture. " I walked fast back," she explained — " ran part of the way, indeed — it is such a delightful morn ing," after which she went into a room opposite, leaving her father and friend to finish their interrupted talk.

It is not very easy to join the thread of a conversation abruptly snapped, but Mr. Gerant proved equal even to that feat. " I am tired of waiting for good manuscripts," he said. " By-the-bye, I sent you a lot on the other day, have you been able to look at them ? " "Not yet," was the reply. "I hop* to do so shortly." "I rather liked a letter that came with one of them — but a letter is not much to go by." " Not much," agreed Mr. Moucell, who knew the difference that often exists between a letter and its writer ; " but do not be discouraged : another genius is about due now. For my part, every night I expect to be astonished next morning by the news that some young man from Shropshire has arrived in London to put all our noses out of joint." " I wish he would make haste, then." " All in good time.

There have always been these periods of depression. Literature has its winters, like everything else." "I think it is high time spring appeared," per sisted Mr. Gerant ; " but then I suppose a lot of geniuses will be budding up all at once." " We cannot have too many ; but alas ! the supply is limited." "Very limited indeed, so far as I can judge," after which there was a movement as if Mr. Gerant were intending to take his departure. " I will walk to the gate with you," said Mr. Moucell, who liked to pay this small attention to his more especial friends ; besides, that short stroll in the open air seemed a change after so much study. In the course of such strolls, moreover, agreeable things had often happened, kindly words been spoken pleasant promises made. Perhaps he hoped for a recurrence of such words or promises on the occasion ? 17 in question ; but if he did, he was disappointed, for when he reached the road Mr. Gerant merely said " Good-day," and bent his steps in the direction of Vauxhall.

Mr. Moucell, with a cloud on his brow, sauntered slowly back, and re-entered the house, when he was instantly joined by his daughter, Joscelyne, who greeted him with, " The young man has come, father." " What young man ? " asked Mr. Moucell, be wildered. " The young man from Shropshire you were speaking of just now — but he is Irish — " " I do not understand, dear — " " I sat up last night reading one of the manuscripts you gave me, and had another couple of hours this morning. I could not quite finish, but oh — it is splendid ! " Mr. Moucell smiled, the sad, incredulous smile of one who, though he fain would hope, has been taught by bitter experience that hope is delusive. " Splendid," repeated his daughter, with a triumphant little nod. " I must look at this great work," he said indul gently.

" Yes, do ; to-day — now ! " exclaimed the girl ; and disappearing for a minute, she returned with a brown paper parcel, which she placed on her father's writing table. c

Chapter III

When children have been nourished on " copy " and weaned on " proof," when their baby ears drink in the strange language which abounds with such mystic sounds as " trans," " caps," " pars," " delete," " itals," and so forth, instead of the inspiriting music of " Hey diddle-diddle" and other kindred melodies ; when they find early that a "printer's devil " has not hoofs or horns, but is an imp like unto themselves ; when they understand young the meaning of" manuscript " and " revise," they learn more readily than their differently-reared fellows, who stumble across the alphabet as if it were a very rough bit of country, find traps set in words even of one syllable, and water their pot-hooks with tears. From their earliest youth the children of authors take " headers " into the depths of literature with as little fear as a boy born by river or sea will plunge into the current and fight the waves.

In the same way other children of a tender age, accustomed from infancy to horses and crawling amongst stamping feet and stamping legs given to lash out, will mount bare backed a steed men great on 'Change might look on askance. Habit is second nature. It accustoms people to most things, except want of money ; and thus it was that the young Moucells, who had been brought up among books and book-producers, insensibly acquired the same sort of knowledge of their surroundings as a rat-catcher's son does of the habits of ferrets. Not that any one of them showed a leaning towards authorship. So far as Mr. Moucell could judge, their talents — if they indeed possessed talents — tended in quite an opposite direction. Nevertheless, almost ever since they could speak plainly, they had criticized authors and their works with an artless frankness which some of the persons so distinguished might scarcely have thought pleasant, for where one story was occasionally pronounced " stunning," twenty were characterized as "bosh," "foolery," "jolly rot," and " stuff; " indeed, most of the novels and boys' books written about that period of the world's history were pooh-poohed by Mr. Moucell's censorious young folks, who would have thought but little of a new Shakspere, had one arisen, and less of the old one, if he could have come to life again.

As they " grew into years," however — and it is amazing how quickly children age after they enter their teens — a change began to take place in their opinions, and this change was publicly inaugurated by the eldest son, who said one day, — " I am beginning to comprehend how it was that his contemporaries could see anything in ' Paradise Lost.' " The observation fell among the family like a bomb, and produced a profound sensation. None, however, ventured on dissent, or asked for information, because it was well known Philip c Moucell would have argued till he turned black in the face over any position he pleased to take up. As for Joscelyne, who for some time had been secretly drifting away from old landmarks, she heard her brother's admission without surprise. She was ever considered the most omnivorous reader in the house.

To say she devoured books could only be deemed a most inadequate way of describing her mode of proceeding, for she gulped down whole volumes at a time, and then opened her mouth for more. The " boa-constrictor," Philip called her ; but this was a libel on the boa, which gives its food time to digest, whereas the girl had no sooner swallowed one literary meal than she was ready for another. " She would read sermons rather than not read anything," said her brothers with disgust, religious or instructive books being the point where they drew the line. " It is all the same to her, providing it's print." Well, not exactly ; for naturally she preferred lighter literature ; but there was some truth in the statement, nevertheless. Still, even this voracious appetite at last grew dainty, about the time when, though still young, she began to put aside childish things.