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Updated: May 9, 2025
He searched the London booksellers but could find no traces of "Mortimer Stant" at any of them. His publishers told him that it was only the libraries that bought any fiction, with the exception of volumes by certain popular authors and yet he saw at these booksellers novels by numbers of people who could not lay claim to the success that "Reuben Hallard" had secured for its writer.
In her revolutionary ideas, Miss Hallard follows the temperament of her inclinations. Whatever position women might hold, she would have disagreed with it. She is one of those of whom like some strange animal that one sees, following instincts which seem the very reverse to Nature's needs one wonders what her place in the scheme of things can be.
He was still at Brockett's, still silent, shy, awkward, still poring over pages of "Reuben Hallard" and wondering whether any one would ever publish it still spending so many hours in the old musty bookshop with Herr Gottfried's wild mop of hair coming so madly above the little counter.
No, it was inconceivable. There poor Reuben would lie deserted, still-born, ever dustier and dustier whilst other stories came pouring, pouring from endless presses, covering, crowding it down, stamping upon it, burying it.... "Here lies 'Reuben Hallard...." Poor Peter! On Thursday, however, there was the tea-party a Thursday never to be forgotten whilst Peter was alive.
Edition followed edition and "Reuben Hallard" was the novel of the spring of 1896. The effect of all this upon Peter may easily be imagined. It came to him first, with those early reviews and an encouraging letter from the publishers, as something that did not belong to him at all, then after a month or so it belonged to him so completely that he felt as though he had been used to it all his life.
"I'll just go and get on my boots," he said, and he slipped away. Sally mounted to her room followed by Janet. "He's going to propose," said Miss Hallard. "He's not," retorted Sally. "I'm perfectly certain he is. He's been excited about something all the evening. He's come into some money or something. He talked to-night as if he could buy up all the art treasures in the kingdom."
But if he thought that the sound of that sum of money had impressed her, he would learn his mistake. She caught another 'bus on to Hammersmith and tried vainly to forget all about it. Miss Hallard was home from the School of Art before her.
Every now and again the heavy curtains blew forward in the wind and the gas flared. There was no conversation, and the wind could be heard driving the rain past the windows. Peter, that evening, took the manuscript of "Reuben Hallard" into Miss Monogue's room. Since her mother died Norah Monogue had had a bed sitting-room to herself.
Galleon, one for Stephen, one for Miss Monogue, one for Mrs. Brockett and one for Mr. Zanti. "Reuben Hallard and His Adventures," by Peter Westcott. They would be getting it now at the newspaper offices. The Mascot would have a copy and the fat little chocolate consumer. It would stand with a heap of others, and be ticked off with a heap of others, for some youth to exercise his wit upon.
"What good would it do you?" Sally wondered what Miss Hallard would say if she were to hear this. She wondered what she would have said herself, had the expression of such ideas come from Mr. Arthur. There was no doubt that she would have repudiated them with vehement denial. With Traill she said nothing felt that he was right. Why was that? She could not tell.
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