malvina of brittany-第32章
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journalist； would rather have taken nothing。 It was to be looked
upon merely as a parting gift。 Matthew decided to spend it on
travel。 It would fit him the better for his journalistic career； so
he explained to Ann。 But in his heart he had other ambitions。 It
would enable him to put them to the test。
So there came an evening when Ann stood waving a handkerchief as a
great liner cast its moorings。 She watched it till its lights grew
dim； and then returned to West Twentieth Street。 Strangers would
take possession of it on the morrow。 Ann had her supper in the
kitchen in company with the nurse； who had stayed on at her request；
and that night； slipping noiselessly from her room； she lay upon the
floor； her head resting against the arm of the chair where Abner had
been wont to sit and smoke his evening pipe； somehow it seemed to
comfort her。 And Matthew the while； beneath the stars； was pacing
the silent deck of the great liner and planning out the future。
To only one other being had he ever confided his dreams。 She lay in
the churchyard； and there was nothing left to encourage him but his
own heart。 But he had no doubts。 He would be a great writer。 His
two hundred pounds would support him till he had gained a foothold。
After that he would climb swiftly。 He had done right； so he told
himself； to turn his back on journalism： the grave of literature。
He would see men and cities； writing as he went。 Looking back；
years later； he was able to congratulate himself on having chosen
the right road。 He thought it would lead him by easy ascent to fame
and fortune。 It did better for him than that。 It led him through
poverty and loneliness； through hope deferred and heartachethrough
long nights of fear； when pride and confidence fell upon him；
leaving him only the courage to endure。
His great poems； his brilliant essays； had been rejected so often
that even he himself had lost all love for them。 At the suggestion
of an editor more kindly than the general run； and urged by need； he
had written some short pieces of a less ambitious nature。 It was in
bitter disappointment he commenced them； regarding them as mere
pot…boilers。 He would not give them his name。 He signed them
〃Aston Rowant。〃 It was the name of the village in Oxfordshire where
he had been born。 It occurred to him by chance。 It would serve the
purpose as well as another。 As the work progressed it grew upon
him。 He made his stories out of incidents and people he had seen；
everyday comedies and tragedies that he had lived among； of things
that he had felt； and when after their appearance in the magazine a
publisher was found willing to make them into a book； hope revived
in him。
It was but short…lived。 The few reviews that reached him contained
nothing but ridicule。 So he had no place even as a literary hack！
He was living in Paris at the time in a noisy； evil…smelling street
leading out of the Quai Saint…Michel。 He thought of Chatterton； and
would loaf on the bridges looking down into the river where the
drowned lights twinkled。
And then one day there came to him a letter； sent on to him from the
publisher of his one book。 It was signed 〃Sylvia；〃 nothing else；
and bore no address。 Matthew picked up the envelope。 The postmark
was 〃London； S。E。〃
It was a childish letter。 A prosperous； well…fed genius； familiar
with such； might have smiled at it。 To Matthew in his despair it
brought healing。 She had found the book lying in an empty railway
carriage； and undeterred by moral scruples had taken it home with
her。 It had remained forgotten for a time； until when the end
really seemed to have come her hand by chance had fallen on it。 She
fancied some kind little wandering spiritthe spirit perhaps of
someone who had known what it was to be lonely and very sad and just
about broken almostmust have manoeuvred the whole thing。 It had
seemed to her as though some strong and gentle hand had been laid
upon her in the darkness。 She no longer felt friendless。 And so
on。
The book； he remembered； contained a reference to the magazine in
which the sketches had first appeared。 She would be sure to have
noticed this。 He would send her his answer。 He drew his chair up
to the flimsy table； and all that night he wrote。
He did not have to think。 It came to him； and for the first time
since the beginning of things he had no fear of its not being
accepted。 It was mostly about himself； and the rest was about her；
but to most of those who read it two months later it seemed to be
about themselves。 The editor wrote a charming letter； thanking him
for it； but at the time the chief thing that worried him was whether
〃Sylvia〃 had seen it。 He waited anxiously for a few weeks； and then
received her second letter。 It was a more womanly letter than the
first。 She had understood the story； and her words of thanks almost
conveyed to him the flush of pleasure with which she had read it。
His friendship； she confessed； would be very sweet to her； and still
more delightful the thought that he had need of her： that she also
had something to give。 She would write； as he wished； her real
thoughts and feelings。 They would never know one another； and that
would give her boldness。 They would be comrades； meeting only in
dreamland。
In this way commenced the whimsical romance of Sylvia and Aston
Rowant； for it was too late now to change the nameit had become a
name to conjure with。 The stories； poems； and essays followed now
in regular succession。 The anxiously expected letters reached him
in orderly procession。 They grew in interest； in helpfulness。 They
became the letters of a wonderfully sane； broad…minded； thoughtful
womana woman of insight； of fine judgment。 Their praise was rare
enough to be precious。 Often they would contain just criticism；
tempered by sympathy； lightened by humour。 Of her troubles；
sorrows； fears； she came to write less and less； and even then not
until they were past and she could laugh at them。 The subtlest
flattery she gave him was the suggestion that he had taught her to
put these things into their proper place。 Intimate； self…revealing
as her letters were； it was curious he never shaped from them any
satisfactory image of the writer。
A brave； kind； tender woman。 A self…forgetting； quickly…forgiving
woman。 A many…sided woman； responding to joy； to laughter： a merry
lady； at times。 Yet by no means a perfect woman。 There could be
flashes of temper； one felt that； quite often occasional
unreasonableness； a tongue that could be cutting。 A sweet； restful；
greatly loving woman； but still a woman： it would be wise to
remember that。 So he read her from her letters。 But herself； the
eyes； and hair； and lips of her； the voice and laugh and smile of
her； the hands and feet of her； always they eluded him。
He was in Alaska one spring； where he had gone to collect material
for his work； when he received the last letter she ever wrote him。
They neither of them knew then it would be the last。 She was
leaving London； so the postscript informed him； sailing on the
following Saturday for New York； where for the future she intended
to live。
It worried him that postscript。 He could not make out for a long
time why it worried him。 Suddenly； in a waste of endless snows； the
explanation flashed across him。 Sylvia of the letters was a living
woman！ She could travelwith a box； he supposed； possibly with two
or three； and parcels。 Could take tickets； walk up a gangway；
stagger about a deck feeling； maybe； a little seasick。 All these
years he had been living with her in dreamland she had been； if he
had only known it； a Miss Somebody…or…other； who must have stood
every morning in front of a looking…glass with hairpins in her
mouth。 He had never thought of her doing these things； it shocked
him。 He could not help feeling it was indelicate of hercoming to
life in this sudden； uncalled…for manner。
He struggled with this new conception of her； and had almost
forgiven her； when a further and still more startling suggestion
arrived to plague him。 If she really lived why should he not see
her； speak to her？ So lo
