the little story which we are about to relate refers to circumstances which occurred some years ago, and we desire therefore, that all readers may avoid the fault of connecting the personages of the tale,—either the editor who suffered so much, and who behaved, we think, so well, or the ladies with whom he was concerned,—with any editor or with any ladies known to such readers either personally or by name. for though the story as told is a true story, we who tell it have used such craft in the telling, that we defy the most astute to fix the time or to recognise the characters. it will be sufficient if the curious will accept it as a fact that at some date since magazines became common in the land, a certain editor, sitting in his office, came upon{98} the perusal of the following letter, addressed to him by name:—

“19, king-charles street,

“1st may, 18—.

“dear sir,

“i think that literature needs no introduction, and, judging of you by the character which you have made for yourself in its paths, i do not doubt but you will feel as i do. i shall therefore write to you without reserve. i am a lady not possessing that modesty which should make me hold a low opinion of my own talents, and equally free from that feeling of self-belittlement which induces so many to speak humbly while they think proudly of their own acquirements. though i am still young, i have written much for the press, and i believe i may boast that i have sometimes done so successfully. hitherto i have kept back my name, but i hope soon to be allowed to see it on the title-page of a book which shall not shame me.

“my object in troubling you is to announce the fact, agreeable enough to myself, that i have just completed a novel in three volumes, and to suggest to you that it should make its first appearance to the world in the pages of the{99} magazine under your control. i will frankly tell you that i am not myself fond of this mode of publication; but messrs. x., y., z., of paternoster row, with whom you are doubtless acquainted, have assured me that such will be the better course. in these matters one is still terribly subject to the tyranny of the publishers, who surely of all cormorants are the most greedy, and of all tyrants are the most arrogant. though i have never seen you, i know you too well to suspect for a moment that my words will ever be repeated to my respectable friends in the row.

“shall i wait upon you with my ms.,—or will you call for it? or perhaps it may be better that i should send it to you. young ladies should not run about,—even after editors; and it might be so probable that i should not find you at home. messrs. x., y., and z. have read the ms.,—or more probably the young man whom they keep for the purpose has done so,—and the nod of approval has been vouchsafed. perhaps this may suffice; but if a second examination be needful, the work is at your service.

“yours faithfully, and in hopes of friendly relations,

“josephine de montmorenci.

“i am english, though my unfortunate name will sound french in your ears.”

{100}

for facility in the telling of our story we will call this especial editor mr. brown. mr. brown’s first feeling on reading the letter was decidedly averse to the writer. but such is always the feeling of editors to would-be contributors, though contributions are the very food on which an editor must live. but mr. brown was an unmarried man, who loved the rustle of feminine apparel, who delighted in the brightness of a woman’s eye when it would be bright for him, and was not indifferent to the touch of a woman’s hand. as editors go, or went then, he knew his business, and was not wont to deluge his pages with weak feminine ware in return for smiles and flattering speeches,—as editors have done before now; but still he liked an adventure, and was perhaps afflicted by some slight flaw of judgment, in consequence of which the words of pretty women found with him something of preponderating favour. who is there that will think evil of him because it was so?

he read the letter a second time, and did not send that curt, heart-rending answer which is so common to editors,—“the editor’s compliments and thanks, but his stock of novels is at present so great that he cannot hope to find room for the work which has been so kindly suggested.”{101}

of king-charles street, brown could not remember that he had ever heard, and he looked it out at once in the directory. there was a king-charles street in camden town, at no. 19 of which street it was stated that a mr. puffle resided. but this told him nothing. josephine de montmorenci might reside with mrs. puffle in camden town, and yet write a good novel,—or be a very pretty girl. and there was a something in the tone of the letter which made him think that the writer was no ordinary person. she wrote with confidence. she asked no favour. and then she declared that messrs. x., y., z., with whom mr. brown was intimate, had read and approved her novel. before he answered the note he would call in the row and ask a question or two.

he did call, and saw mr. z. mr. z. remembered well that the ms. had been in their house. he rather thought that x., who was out of town, had seen miss montmorenci,—perhaps on more than one occasion. the novel had been read, and,—well, mr. z. would not quite say approved; but it had been thought that there was a good deal in it. “i think i remember x. telling me that she was an uncommon pretty young woman,” said z.,—“and there is some mystery about her. i didn’t see her myself, but i am sure there was a mystery.”{102} mr. brown made up his mind that he would, at any rate, see the ms.

he felt disposed to go at once to camden town, but still had fears that in doing so he might seem to make himself too common. there are so many things of which an editor is required to think! it is almost essential that they who are ambitious of serving under him should believe that he is enveloped in mss. from morning to night,—that he cannot call an hour his own,—that he is always bringing out that periodical of his in a frenzy of mental exertion,—that he is to be approached only with difficulty,—and that a call from him is a visit from a god. mr. brown was a jupiter, willing enough on occasions to go a little out of his way after some literary leda, or even on behalf of a danae desirous of a price for her compositions;—but he was obliged to acknowledge to himself that the occasion had not as yet arisen. so he wrote to the young lady as follows:—

“office of the olympus magazine,

“4th may, 18—.

“the editor presents his compliments to miss de montmorenci, and will be very happy to see her ms. perhaps she will send it to the above address. the{103} editor has seen mr. z., of paternoster row, who speaks highly of the work. a novel, however, may be very clever and yet hardly suit a magazine. should it be accepted by the ‘olympus,’ some time must elapse before it appears. the editor would be very happy to see miss de montmorenci if it would suit her to call any friday between the hours of two and three.”

when the note was written mr. brown felt that it was cold;—but then it behoves an editor to be cold. a gushing editor would ruin any publication within six months. young women are very nice; pretty young women are especially nice; and of all pretty young women, clever young women who write novels are perhaps as nice as any;—but to an editor they are dangerous. mr. brown was at this time about forty, and had had his experiences. the letter was cold, but he was afraid to make it warmer. it was sent;—and when he received the following answer, it may fairly be said that his editorial hair stood on end:

“dear mr. brown,

“i hate you and your compliments. that sort of communication means nothing, and i won’t send you my{104} ms. unless you are more in earnest about it. i know the way in which rolls of paper are shoved into pigeon-holes and left there till they are musty, while the writers’ hearts are being broken. my heart may be broken some day, but not in that way.

“i won’t come to you between two and three on friday. it sounds a great deal too like a doctor’s appointment, and i don’t think much of you if you are only at your work one hour in the week. indeed, i won’t go to you at all. if an interview is necessary you can come here. but i don’t know that it will be necessary.

“old x. is a fool and knows nothing about it. my own approval is to me very much more than his. i don’t suppose he’d know the inside of a book if he saw it. i have given the very best that is in me to my work, and i know that it is good. even should you say that it is not i shall not believe you. but i don’t think you will say so, because i believe you to be in truth a clever fellow in spite of your ‘compliments’ and your ‘two and three o’clock on a friday.’

“if you want to see my ms., say so with some earnestness, and it shall be conveyed to you. and please to say how much i shall be paid for it, for i am{105} as poor as job. and name a date. i won’t be put off with your ‘some time must elapse.’ it shall see the light, or, at least, a part of it, within six months. that is my intention. and don’t talk nonsense to me about clever novels not suiting magazines,—unless you mean that as an excuse for publishing so many stupid ones as you do.

“you will see that i am frank; but i really do mean what i say. i want it to come out in the ‘olympus;’ and if we can i shall be so happy to come to terms with you.

“yours as i find you,

“josephine de montmorenci.”

“thursday—king-charles street.”

this was an epistle to startle an editor as coming from a young lady; but yet there was something in it that seemed to imply strength. before answering it mr. brown did a thing which he must be presumed to have done as man and not as editor. he walked off to king-charles street in camden town, and looked at the house. it was a nice little street, very quiet, quite genteel, completely made up with what we vaguely call gentlemen’s houses, with two windows to each drawing-room,{106} and with a balcony to some of them, the prettiest balcony in the street belonging to no. 19, near the park, and equally removed from poverty and splendour. brown walked down the street, on the opposite side, towards the park, and looked up at the house. he intended to walk at once homewards, across the park, to his own little home in st. john’s wood road; but when he had passed half a street away from the puffle residence, he turned to have another look, and retraced his steps. as he passed the door it was opened, and there appeared upon the steps,—one of the prettiest little women he had ever seen in his life. she was dressed for walking, with that jaunty, broad, open bonnet which women then wore, and seemed, as some women do seem, to be an amalgam of softness, prettiness, archness, fun, and tenderness,—and she carried a tiny blue parasol. she was fair, gray-eyed, dimpled, all alive, and dressed so nicely and yet simply, that mr. brown was carried away for the moment by a feeling that he would like to publish her novel, let it be what it might. and he heard her speak. “charles,” she said, “you sha’n’t smoke.” our editor could, of course, only pass on, and had not an opportunity of even seeing charles. at the corner of the street he turned round and saw them walking{107} the other way. josephine was leaning on charles’s arm. she had, however, distinctly avowed herself to be a young lady,—in other words, an unmarried woman. there was, no doubt, a mystery, and mr. brown felt it to be incumbent on him to fathom it. his next letter was as follows:—

“my dear miss de montmorenci,

“i am sorry that you should hate me and my compliments. i had intended to be as civil and as nice as possible. i am quite in earnest, and you had better send the ms. as to all the questions you ask, i cannot answer them to any purpose till i have read the story,—which i will promise to do without subjecting it to the pigeon-holes. if you do not like friday, you shall come on monday, or tuesday, or wednesday, or thursday, or saturday, or even on sunday, if you wish it;—and at any hour, only let it be fixed.

“yours faithfully,

“jonathan brown.”

“friday.”

in the course of the next week the novel came, with another short note, to which was attached no ordinary{108} beginning or ending. “i send my treasure, and, remember, i will have it back in a week if you do not intend to keep it. i have not ￡5 left in the world, and i owe my milliner ever so much, and money at the stables where i get a horse. and i am determined to go to dieppe in july. all must come out of my novel. so do be a good man. if you are i will see you.” herein she declared plainly her own conviction that she had so far moved the editor by her correspondence,—for she knew nothing, of course, of that ramble of his through king-charles street,—as to have raised in his bosom a desire to see her. indeed, she made no secret of such conviction. “do as i wish,” she said plainly, “and i will gratify you by a personal interview.” but the interview was not to be granted till the novel had been accepted and the terms fixed,—such terms, too, as it would be very improbable that any editor could accord.

“not so black as he’s painted;”—that was the name of the novel which it now became the duty of mr. brown to read. when he got it home, he found that the writing was much worse than that of the letters. it was small, and crowded, and carried through without those technical demarcations which are so comfortable to printers, and{109} so essential to readers. the erasures were numerous, and bits of the story were written, as it were, here and there. it was a manuscript to which mr. brown would not have given a second glance, had there not been an adventure behind it. the very sending of such a manuscript to any editor would have been an impertinence, if it were sent by any but a pretty woman. mr. brown, however, toiled over it, and did read it,—read it, or at least enough of it to make him know what it was. the verdict which mr. z. had given was quite true. no one could have called the story stupid. no mentor experienced in such matters would have ventured on such evidence to tell the aspirant that she had mistaken her walk in life, and had better sit at home and darn her stockings. out of those heaps of ambitious manuscripts which are daily subjected to professional readers such verdicts may safely be given in regard to four-fifths,—either that the aspirant should darn her stockings, or that he should prune his fruit trees. it is equally so with the works of one sex as with those of the other. the necessity of saying so is very painful, and the actual stocking, or the fruit tree itself, is not often named. the cowardly professional reader indeed, unable to endure those thorns in the flesh of which poor thackeray spoke{110} so feelingly, when hard-pressed for definite answers, generally lies. he has been asked to be candid, but he cannot bring himself to undertake a duty so onerous, so odious, and one as to which he sees so little reason that he personally should perform it. but in regard to these aspirations,—to which have been given so much labour, which have produced so many hopes, offsprings which are so dear to the poor parents,—the decision at least is easy. and there are others in regard to which a hopeful reader finds no difficulty,—as to which he feels assured that he is about to produce to the world the fruit of some new-found genius. but there are doubtful cases which worry the poor judge till he knows not how to trust his own judgment. at this page he says, “yes, certainly;” at the next he shakes his head as he sits alone amidst his papers. then he is dead against the aspirant. again there is improvement, and he asks himself,—where is he to find anything that is better? as our editor read josephine’s novel,—he had learned to call her josephine in that silent speech in which most of us indulge, and which is so necessary to an editor,—he was divided between yes and no throughout the whole story. once or twice he found himself wiping his eyes, and then it was all “yes” with him. then he found{111} the pages ran with a cruel heaviness, which seemed to demand decisive editorial severity. a whole novel, too, is so great a piece of business! there would be such difficulty were he to accept it! how much must he cut out! how many of his own hours must he devote to the repairing of mutilated sentences, and the remodelling of indistinct scenes! in regard to a small piece an editor, when moved that way, can afford to be good-natured. he can give to it the hour or so of his own work which it may require. and if after all it be nothing—or, as will happen sometimes, much worse than nothing,—the evil is of short duration. in admitting such a thing he has done an injury,—but the injury is small. it passes in the crowd, and is forgotten. the best homer that ever edited must sometimes nod. but a whole novel! a piece of work that would last him perhaps for twelve months! no editor can afford to nod for so long a period.

but then this tale, this novel of “not so black as he’s painted,” this story of a human devil, for whose crimes no doubt some byronic apology was made with great elaboration by the sensational josephine, was not exactly bad. our editor had wept over it. some tender-hearted medora, who on behalf of her hyena-in-love had gone{112} through miseries enough to kill half a regiment of heroines, had dimmed the judge’s eyes with tears. what stronger proof of excellence can an editor have? but then there were those long pages of metaphysical twaddle, sure to elicit scorn and neglect from old and young. they, at any rate, must be cut out. but in the cutting of them out a very mincemeat would be made of the story. and yet josephine de montmorenci, with her impudent little letters, had already made herself so attractive! what was our editor to do?

he knew well the difficulty that would be before him should he once dare to accept, and then undertake to alter. she would be as a tigress to him,—as a tigress fighting for her young. that work of altering is so ungracious, so precarious, so incapable of success in its performance! the long-winded, far-fetched, high-stilted, unintelligible sentence which you elide with so much confidence in your judgment, has been the very apple of your author’s eye. in it she has intended to convey to the world the fruits of her best meditation for the last twelve months. thinking much over many things in her solitude, she has at last invented a truth, and there it lies. that wise men may adopt it, and candid women admire it, is the hope, the solace, and at last almost the certainty{113} of her existence. she repeats the words to herself, and finds that they will form a choice quotation to be used in coming books. it is for the sake of that one newly-invented truth,—so she tells herself, though not quite truly,—that she desires publication. you come,—and with a dash of your pen you annihilate the precious gem! is it in human nature that you should be forgiven? mr. brown had had his experiences, and understood all this well. nevertheless he loved dearly to please a pretty woman.

and it must be acknowledged that the letters of josephine were such as to make him sure that there might be an adventure if he chose to risk the pages of his magazine. the novel had taken him four long evenings to read, and at the end of the fourth he sat thinking of it for an hour. fortune either favoured him or the reverse,—as the reader may choose to regard the question,—in this, that there was room for the story in his periodical if he chose to take it. he wanted a novel,—but then he did not want feminine metaphysics. he sat thinking of it, wondering in his mind how that little smiling, soft creature with the gray eyes, and the dimples, and the pretty walking-dress, could have written those interminable pages as to the questionable criminality of crime; whether a card-sharper might not be a hero; whether a{114} murderer might not sacrifice his all, even the secret of his murder, for the woman he loved; whether devil might not be saint, and saint devil. at the end of the hour he got up from his chair, stretched himself, with his hands in his trousers-pockets, and said aloud, though alone, that he’d be d—— if he would. it was an act of great self-denial, a triumph of principle over passion.

but though he had thus decided, he was not minded to throw over altogether either josephine or her novel. he might still, perhaps, do something for her if he could find her amenable to reason. thinking kindly of her, very anxious to know her personally, and still desirous of seeing the adventure to the end, he wrote the following note to her that evening:—

‘cross bank, st. john’s wood,

“saturday night.

“my dear miss de montmorenci,

“i knew how it would be. i cannot give you an answer about your novel without seeing you. it so often happens that the answer can’t be yes or no. you said something very cruel about dear old x., but after all he was quite right in his verdict about the book. there is a great deal in it; but it evidently was not written to suit{115} the pages of a magazine. will you come to me, or shall i come to you;—or shall i send the ms. back, and so let there be an end of it? you must decide. if you direct that the latter course be taken, i will obey; but i shall do so with most sincere regret, both on account of your undoubted aptitude for literary work, and because i am very anxious to become acquainted with my fair correspondent. you see i can be as frank as you are yourself.

“yours most faithfully,

“jonathan brown.

“my advice to you would be to give up the idea of publishing this tale in parts, and to make terms with x., y., and z.,—in endeavouring to do which i shall be most happy to be of service to you.’

this note he posted on the following day, and when he returned home on the next night from his club, he found three replies from the divine, but irritable and energetic, josephine. we will give them according to their chronology.

no. 1. “monday morning.—let me have my ms. back,—and pray, without any delay.—j. de m.”

no. 2. “monday, 2 o’clock.—how can you have been{116} so ill-natured,—and after keeping it twelve days?” his answer had been written within a week of the receipt of the parcel at his office, and he had acted with a rapidity which nothing but some tender passion would have instigated.—“what you say about being clever, and yet not fit for a magazine, is rubbish. i know it is rubbish. i do not wish to see you. why should i see a man who will do nothing to oblige me? if x., y., z. choose to buy it, at once, they shall have it. but i mean to be paid for it, and i think you have behaved very ill to me.—josephine.”

no. 3. “monday evening.—my dear mr. brown,—can you wonder that i should have lost my temper and almost my head? i have written twice before to-day, and hardly know what i said. i cannot understand you editing people. you are just like women;—you will and you won’t. i am so unhappy. i had allowed myself to feel almost certain that you would take it, and have told that cross man at the stables he should have his money. of course i can’t make you publish it;—but how you can put in such yards of stupid stuff, all about nothing on earth, and then send back a novel which you say yourself is very clever, is what i can’t understand. i suppose it{117} all goes by favour, and the people who write are your uncles, and aunts, and grandmothers, and lady-loves. i can’t make you do it, and therefore i suppose i must take your advice about those old hugger-muggers in paternoster row. but there are ever so many things you must arrange. i must have the money at once. and i won’t put up with just a few pounds. i have been at work upon that novel for more than two years, and i know that it is good. i hate to be grumbled at, and complained of, and spoken to as if a publisher were doing me the greatest favour in the world when he is just going to pick my brains to make money of them. i did see old x., or old z., or old y., and the snuffy old fellow told me that if i worked hard i might do something some day. i have worked harder than ever he did,—sitting there and squeezing brains, and sucking the juice out of them like an old ghoul. i suppose i had better see you, because of money and all that. i’ll come, or else send some one, at about two on wednesday. i can’t put it off till friday, and i must be home by three. you might as well go to x., y., z., in the meantime, and let me know what they say.—j. de m.”

there was an unparalleled impudence in all this which{118} affronted, amazed, and yet in part delighted our editor. josephine evidently regarded him as her humble slave, who had already received such favours as entitled her to demand from him any service which she might require of him. “you might as well go to x., y., z., and let me know what they say!” and then that direct accusation against him,—that all went by favour with him! “i think you have behaved very ill to me!” why,—had he not gone out of his way, very much out of his way indeed, to do her a service? was he not taking on her behalf an immense trouble for which he looked for no remuneration,—unless remuneration should come in that adventure of which she had but a dim foreboding? all this was unparalleled impudence. but then impudence from pretty women is only sauciness; and such sauciness is attractive. none but a very pretty woman who openly trusted in her prettiness would dare to write such letters, and the girl whom he had seen on the door-step was very pretty. as to his going to x., y., z., before he had seen her, that was out of the question. that very respectable firm in the row would certainly not give money for a novel without considerable caution, without much talking, and a regular understanding and bargain. as a matter of course, they would take time to consider. x., y.,{119} and z. were not in a hurry to make money to pay a milliner or to satisfy a stable-keeper, and would have but little sympathy for such troubles;—all which it would be mr. brown’s unpleasant duty to explain to josephine de montmorenci.

but though this would be unpleasant, still there might be pleasure. he could foresee that there would be a storm, with much pouting, some violent complaint, and perhaps a deluge of tears. but it would be for him to dry the tears and allay the storm. the young lady could do him no harm, and must at last be driven to admit that his kindness was disinterested. he waited, therefore, for the wednesday, and was careful to be at the office of his magazine at two o’clock. in the ordinary way of his business the office would not have seen him on that day, but the matter had now been present in his mind so long, and had been so much considered, had assumed so large a proportion in his thoughts,—that he regarded not at all this extra trouble. with an air of indifference he told the lad who waited upon him as half clerk and half errand-boy, that he expected a lady; and then he sat down, as though to compose himself to his work. but no work was done. letters were not even opened. his mind was full of josephine de montmorenci. if all the truth is{120} to be told, it must be acknowledged that he did not even wear the clothes that were common to him when he sat in his editorial chair. he had prepared himself somewhat, and a new pair of gloves was in his hat. it might be that circumstances would require him to accompany josephine at least a part of the way back to camden town.

at half-past two the lady was announced,—miss de montmorenci; and our editor, with palpitating heart, rose to welcome the very figure, the very same pretty walking-dress, the same little blue parasol, which he had seen upon the steps of the house in king-charles street. he could swear to the figure, and to the very step, although he could not as yet see the veiled face. and this was a joy to him; for, though he had not allowed himself to doubt much, he had doubted a little whether that graceful houri might or might not be his josephine. now she was there, present to him in his own castle, at his mercy as it were, so that he might dry her tears and bid her hope, or tell her that there was no hope so that she might still weep on, just as he pleased. it was not one of those cases in which want of bread and utter poverty are to be discussed. a horsekeeper’s bill and a visit to dieppe were the melodramatic incidents of the tragedy, if tragedy{121} it must be. mr. brown had in his time dealt with cases in which a starving mother or a dying father was the motive to which appeal was made. at worst there could be no more than a rose-water catastrophe; and it might be that triumph, and gratitude, and smiles would come. he rose from his chair, and, giving his hand gracefully to his visitor, led her to a seat.

“i am very glad to see you here, miss de montmorenci,” he said. then the veil was raised, and there was the pretty face half blushing half smiling, wearing over all a mingled look of fun and fear.

“we are so much obliged to you, mr. brown, for all the trouble you have taken,” she said.

“don’t mention it. it comes in the way of my business to take such trouble. the annoyance is in this, that i can so seldom do what is wanted.”

“it is so good of you to do anything!”

“an editor is, of course, bound to think first of the periodical which he produces.” this announcement mr. brown made, no doubt, with some little air of assumed personal dignity. the fact was one which no heaven-born editor ever forgets.

“of course, sir. and no doubt there are hundreds who want to get their things taken.”{122}

“a good many there are, certainly.”

“and everything can’t be published,” said the sagacious beauty.

“no, indeed; very much comes into our hands which cannot be published,” replied the experienced editor. “but this novel of yours, perhaps, may be published.”

“you think so?”

“indeed i do. i cannot say what x., y., and z. may say to it. i’m afraid they will not do more than offer half profits.”

“and that doesn’t mean any money paid at once?” asked the lady plaintively.

“i’m afraid not.”

“ah! if that could be managed!”

“i haven’t seen the publishers, and of course i can say nothing myself. you see i’m so busy myself with my uncles, and aunts, and grandmothers, and lady-loves——”

“ah,—that was very naughty, mr. brown.”

“and then, you know, i have so many yards of stupid stuff to arrange.”

“oh, mr. brown, you should forget all that!”

“so i will. i could not resist the temptation of telling you of it again, because you are so much mistaken in your accusation. and now about your novel.”{123}

“it isn’t mine, you know.”

“not yours?”

“not my own, mr. brown.”

“then whose is it?”

mr. brown, as he asked this question, felt that he had a right to be offended. “are you not josephine de montmorenci?”

“me an author! oh no, mr. brown,” said the pretty little woman. and our editor almost thought that he could see a smile on her lips as she spoke.

“then who are you?” asked mr. brown.

“i am her sister;—or rather her sister-in-law. my name is mrs. puffle.” how could mrs. puffle be the sister-in-law of miss de montmorenci? some such thought as this passed through the editor’s mind, but it was not followed out to any conclusion. relationships are complex things, and, as we all know, give rise to most intricate questions. in the half-moment that was allowed to him mr. brown reflected that mrs. puffle might be the sister-in-law of a miss de montmorenci; or, at least, half sister-in-law. it was even possible that mrs. puffle, young as she looked, might have been previously married to a de montmorenci. of all that, however, he would not now stop to unravel the details, but endeavoured as{124} he went on to take some comfort from the fact that puffle was no doubt charles. josephine might perhaps have no charles. and then it became evident to him that the little fair, smiling, dimpled thing before him could hardly have written “not so black as he’s painted,” with all its metaphysics. josephine must be made of sterner stuff. and, after all, for an adventure, little dimples and a blue parasol are hardly appropriate. there should be more of stature than mrs. puffle possessed, with dark hair, and piercing eyes. the colour of the dress should be black, with perhaps yellow trimmings; and the hand should not be of pearly whiteness,—as mrs. puffle’s no doubt was, though the well-fitting little glove gave no absolute information on this subject. for such an adventure the appropriate colour of the skin would be,—we will not say sallow exactly,—but running a little that way. the beauty should be just toned by sadness; and the blood, as it comes and goes, should show itself, not in blushes, but in the mellow, changing lines of the brunette. all this mr. brown understood very well.

“oh,—you are mrs. puffle,” said brown, after a short but perhaps insufficient pause. “you are charles puffle’s wife?”

“do you know charles?” asked the lady, putting up{125} both her little hands. “we don’t want him to hear anything about this. you haven’t told him?”

“i’ve told him nothing as yet,” said mr. brown.

“pray don’t. it’s a secret. of course he’ll know it some day. oh, mr. brown, you won’t betray us. how very odd that you should know charles!”

“does he smoke as much as ever, mrs. puffle?”

“how very odd that he never should have mentioned it! is it at his office that you see him?”

“well, no; not at his office. how is it that he manages to get away on an afternoon as he does?”

“it’s very seldom,—only two or three times in a month,—when he really has a headache from sitting at his work. dear me, how odd! i thought he told me everything, and he never mentioned your name.”

“you needn’t mention mine, mrs. puffle, and the secret shall be kept. but you haven’t told me about the smoking. is he as inveterate as ever?”

“of course he smokes. they all smoke. i suppose then he used always to be doing it before he married. i don’t think men ever tell the real truth about things, though girls always tell everything.”

“and now about your sister’s novel?” asked mr.{126} brown, who felt that he had mystified the little woman sufficiently about her husband.

“well, yes. she does want to get some money so badly! and it is clever;—isn’t it? i don’t think i ever read anything cleverer. isn’t it enough to take your breath away when orlando defends himself before the lords?” this referred to a very high flown passage which mr. brown had determined to cut out when he was thinking of printing the story for the pages of the “olympus.” “and she will be so broken-hearted! i hope you are not angry with her because she wrote in that way.”

“not in the least. i liked her letters. she wrote what she really thought.”

“that is so good of you! i told her that i was sure you were good-natured, because you answered so civilly. it was a kind of experiment of hers, you know.”

“oh,—an experiment!”

“it is so hard to get at people. isn’t it? if she’d just written, ‘dear sir, i send you a manuscript,’—you never would have looked at it:—would you?”

“we read everything, mrs. puffle.”

“but the turn for all the things comes so slowly; doesn’t it? so polly thought—{127}—”

“polly,—what did polly think?”

“i mean josephine. we call her polly just as a nickname. she was so anxious to get you to read it at once! and now what must we do?” mr. brown sat silent awhile, thinking. why did they call josephine de montmorenci polly? but there was the fact of the ms., let the name of the author be what it might. on one thing he was determined. he would take no steps till he had himself seen the lady who wrote the novel. “you’ll go to the gentlemen in paternoster row immediately; won’t you?” asked mrs. puffle, with a pretty little beseeching look which it was very hard to resist.

“i think i must ask to see the authoress first,” said mr. brown.

“won’t i do?” asked mrs. puffle. “josephine is so particular. i mean she dislikes so very much to talk about her own writings and her own works.” mr. brown thought of the tenor of the letters which he had received, and found that he could not reconcile with it this character which was given to him of miss de montmorenci. “she has an idea,” continued mrs. puffle, “that genius should not show itself publicly. of course, she does not say that herself. and she does not think herself to be a genius;—though i think it. and she is a genius. there{128} are things in ‘not so black as he’s painted’ which nobody but polly could have written.”

nevertheless mr. brown was firm. he explained that he could not possibly treat with messrs. x., y., and z.,—if any treating should become possible,—without direct authority from the principal. he must have from miss de montmorenci’s mouth what might be the arrangements to which she would accede. if this could not be done he must wash his hands of the affair. he did not doubt, he said, but that miss de montmorenci might do quite as well with the publishers by herself, as she could with any aid from him. perhaps it would be better that she should see mr. x. herself. but if he, brown, was to be honoured by any delegated authority, he must see the author. in saying this he implied that he had not the slightest desire to interfere further, and that he had no wish to press himself on the lady. mrs. puffle, with just a tear, and then a smile, and then a little coaxing twist of her lips, assured him that their only hope was in him. she would carry his message to josephine, and he should have a further letter from that lady. “and you won’t tell charles that i have been here,” said mrs. puffle as she took her leave.

“certainly not. i won’t say a word of it.”{129}

“it is so odd that you should have known him.”

“don’t let him smoke too much, mrs. puffle.”

“i don’t intend. i’ve brought him down to one cigar and a pipe a day,—unless he smokes at the office.”

“they all do that;—nearly the whole day.”

“what; at the post office!”

“that’s why i mention it. i don’t think they’re allowed at any of the other offices, but they do what they please there. i shall keep the ms. till i hear from josephine herself.” then mrs. puffle took her leave with many thanks, and a grateful pressure from her pretty little hand.

two days after this there came the promised letter from josephine.

“dear mr. brown,

“i cannot understand why you should not go to x., y., and z. without seeing me. i hardly ever see anybody; but, of course, you must come if you will. i got my sister to go because she is so gentle and nice, that i thought she could persuade anybody to do anything. she says that you know mr. puffle quite well, which seems to be so very odd. he doesn’t know that i ever write a word, and i didn’t think he had an acquaintance{130} in the world whom i don’t know the name of. you’re quite wrong about one thing. they never smoke at the post office, and they wouldn’t be let to do it. if you choose to come, you must. i shall be at home any time on friday morning,—that is, after half-past nine, when charles goes away.

“yours truly,

“j. de m.

“we began to talk about editors after dinner, just for fun; and charles said that he didn’t know that he had ever seen one. of course we didn’t say anything about the ‘olympus;’ but i don’t know why he should be so mysterious.” then there was a second postscript, written down in a corner of the sheet of paper. “i know you’ll be sorry you came.”

our editor was now quite determined that he would see the adventure to an end. he had at first thought that josephine was keeping herself in the background merely that she might enhance the favour of a personal meeting when that favour should be accorded. a pretty woman believing herself to be a genius, and thinking that good things should ever be made scarce, might not {131}improbably fall into such a foible. but now he was convinced that she would prefer to keep herself unseen if her doing so might be made compatible with her great object. mr. brown was not a man to intrude himself unnecessarily upon any woman unwilling to receive him; but in this case it was, so he thought, his duty to persevere. so he wrote a pretty little note to miss josephine saying that he would be with her at eleven o’clock on the day named.

precisely at eleven o’clock he knocked at the door of the house in king-charles street, which was almost instantaneously opened for him by the fair hands of mrs. puffle herself. “h—sh,” said mrs. puffle; “we don’t want the servants to know anything about it.” mr. brown, who cared nothing for the servants of the puffle establishment, and who was becoming perhaps a little weary of the unravelled mystery of the affair, simply bowed and followed the lady into the parlour. “my sister is up stairs,” said mrs. puffle, “and we will go to her immediately.” then she paused, as though she were still struggling with some difficulty;—“i am so sorry to say that polly is not well.—but she means to see you,” mrs. puffle added, as she saw that the editor, over whom they had so far prevailed, made some sign as though he{132} was about to retreat. “she never is very well,” said mrs. puffle, “and her work does tell upon her so much. do you know, mr. brown, i think the mind sometimes eats up the body; that is, when it is called upon for such great efforts.” they were now upon the stairs, and mr. brown followed the little lady into her drawing-room.

there, almost hidden in the depths of a low arm-chair, sat a little wizened woman, not old indeed,—when mr. brown came to know her better, he found that she had as yet only counted five-and-twenty summers,—but with that look of mingled youth and age which is so painful to the beholder. who has not seen it,—the face in which the eye and the brow are young and bright, but the mouth and the chin are old and haggard? see such a one when she sleeps,—when the brightness of the eye is hidden, and all the countenance is full of pain and decay, and then the difference will be known to you between youth with that health which is generally given to it, and youth accompanied by premature decrepitude. “this is my sister-in-law,” said mrs. puffle, introducing the two correspondents to each other. the editor looked at the little woman who made some half attempt to rise, and thought that he could see in the brightness of the eye some symptoms of the sauciness which had appeared so{133} very plainly in her letters. and there was a smile too about the mouth, though the lips were thin and the chin poor, which seemed to indicate that the owner of them did in some sort enjoy this unravelling of her riddle,—as though she were saying to herself, “what do you think now of the beautiful young woman who has made you write so many letters, and read so long a manuscript, and come all the way at this hour of the morning to camden town?” mr. brown shook hands with her, and muttered something to the effect that he was sorry not to see her in better health.

“no,” said josephine de montmorenci, “i am not very well. i never am. i told you that you had better put up with seeing my sister.”

we say no more than the truth of mr. brown in declaring that he was now more ready than ever to do whatever might be in his power to forward the views of this young authoress. if he was interested before when he believed her to be beautiful, he was doubly interested for her now when he knew her to be a cripple;—for he had seen when she made that faint attempt to rise that her spine was twisted, and that, when she stood up, her head sank between her shoulders. “i am very glad to make your acquaintance,” he said, seating himself near{134} her. “i should never have been satisfied without doing so.”

“it is so very good of you to come,” said mrs. puffle.

“of course it is good of him,” said josephine; “especially after the way we wrote to him. the truth is, mr. brown, we were at our wits’ end to catch you.”

this was an aspect of the affair which our editor certainly did not like. an attempt to deceive anybody else might have been pardonable; but deceit practised against himself was odious to him. nevertheless, he did forgive it. the poor little creature before him had worked hard, and had done her best. to teach her to be less metaphysical in her writings, and more straightforward in her own practices, should be his care. there is something to a man inexpressibly sweet in the power of protecting the weak; and no one had ever seemed to be weaker than josephine. “miss de montmorenci,” he said, “we will let bygones be bygones, and will say nothing about the letters. it is no doubt the fact that you did write the novel yourself?”

“every word of it,” said mrs. puffle energetically.

“oh, yes; i wrote it,” said josephine.

“and you wish to have it published?”

“indeed i do.”{135}

“and you wish to get money for it?”

“that is the truest of all,” said josephine.

“oughtn’t one to be paid when one has worked so very hard?” said mrs. puffle.

“certainly one ought to be paid if it can be proved that one’s work is worth buying,” replied the sage mentor of literature.

“but isn’t it worth buying?” demanded mrs. puffle.

“i must say that i think that publishers do buy some that are worse,” observed josephine.

mr. brown with words of wisdom explained to them as well as he was able the real facts of the case. it might be that that manuscript, over which the poor invalid had laboured for so many painful hours, would prove to be an invaluable treasure of art, destined to give delight to thousands of readers, and to be, when printed, a source of large profits to publishers, booksellers, and author. or, again, it might be that, with all its undoubted merits,—and that there were such merits mr. brown was eager in acknowledging,—the novel would fail to make any way with the public. “a publisher,”—so said mr. brown,—“will hardly venture to pay you a sum of money down, when the risk of failure is so great.”{136}

“but polly has written ever so many things before,” said mrs. puffle.

“that counts for nothing,” said miss de montmorenci. “they were short pieces, and appeared without a name.”

“were you paid for them?” asked mr. brown.

“i have never been paid a halfpenny for anything yet.”

“isn’t that cruel,” said mrs. puffle, “to work, and work, and work, and never get the wages which ought to be paid for it?”

“perhaps there may be a good time coming,” said our editor. “let us see whether we can get messrs. x., y., and z. to publish this at their own expense, and with your name attached to it. then, miss de montmorenci——”

“i suppose we had better tell him all,” said josephine.

“oh, yes; tell everything. i am sure he won’t be angry; he is so good-natured,” said mrs. puffle.

mr. brown looked first at one, and then at the other, feeling himself to be rather uncomfortable. what was there that remained to be told? he was good-natured, but he did not like being told of that virtue. “the name you have heard is not my name,” said the lady who had written the novel.{137}

“oh, indeed! i have heard mrs. puffle call you,—polly.”

“my name is,—maryanne.”

“it is a very good name,” said mr. brown,—“so good that i cannot quite understand why you should go out of your way to assume another.”

“it is maryanne,—puffle.”

“oh;—puffle!” said mr. brown.

“and a very good name, too,” said mrs. puffle.

“i haven’t a word to say against it,” said mr. brown. “i wish i could say quite as much as to that other name,—josephine de montmorenci.”

“but maryanne puffle would be quite unendurable on a title-page,” said the owner of the unfortunate appellation.

“i don’t see it,” said mr. brown doggedly.

“ever so many have done the same,” said mrs. puffle. “there’s boz.”

“calling yourself boz isn’t like calling yourself josephine de montmorenci,” said the editor, who could forgive the loss of beauty, but not the assumed grandeur of the name.

“and currer bell, and jacob omnium, and barry cornwall,” said poor polly puffle, pleading hard for her falsehood.{138}

“and michael angelo titmarsh! that was quite the same sort of thing,” said mrs. puffle.

our editor tried to explain to them that the sin of which he now complained did not consist in the intention,—foolish as that had been,—of putting such a name as josephine de montmorenci on the title-page, but in having corresponded with him,—with him who had been so willing to be a friend,—under a false name. “i really think you ought to have told me sooner,” he said.

“if we had known you had been a friend of charles’s we would have told you at once,” said the young wife.

“i never had the pleasure of speaking to mr. puffle in my life,” said mr. brown. mrs. puffle opened her little mouth, and held up both her little hands. polly puffle stared at her sister-in-law. “and what is more,” continued mr. brown, “i never said that i had had that pleasure.”

“you didn’t tell me that charles smoked at the post office,” exclaimed mrs. puffle,—“which he swears that he never does, and that he would be dismissed at once if he attempted it?” mr. brown was driven to a smile. “i declare i don’t understand you, mr. brown.”

“it was his little roland for our little oliver,” said miss puffle.{139}

mr. brown felt that his roland had been very small, whereas the oliver by which he had been taken in was not small at all. but he was forced to accept the bargain. what is a man against a woman in such a matter? what can he be against two women, both young, of whom one was pretty and the other an invalid? of course he gave way, and of course he undertook the mission to x., y., and z. we have not ourselves read “not so black as he’s painted,” but we can say that it came out in due course under the hands of those enterprising publishers, and that it made what many of the reviews called quite a success.