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Updated: May 9, 2025
Had the place not taken him into its arms, given him books and leisure out of its hospitality, treated him kindly during these years so that they had fled like an instant of time, and here he was, Peter Westcott, aged twenty-five, with a book written, four friends made, and the best health possible to man. The book was "Reuben Hallard," the friends were Mrs. Brockett, Mr.
Now, feeling that that work was bad, his aim seemed wasted, his purpose gone. Here were seven years gone and he had done nothing seen nothing, become nothing. What was his future to be? Where was he to go? What to do? He had reasoned blindly to himself during these years, that "Reuben Hallard" would make his fortune now that seemed the very last thing it would do.
"What?" "You say you've got a loose end?" "Yes, there's Time got to be killed somehow." "Well, take Sally out to dinner." "What, the little lady?" "Yes, she'll be lonely by herself. I gave her such damned short notice about this engagement of mine that she didn't have time to send for that friend of hers that Miss Hallard. Would you mind doing that? Don't hesitate to say if you would."
"I won't say anything," Miss Monogue said, "until I've read more, but it's going to be extraordinarily good I think." What did he care about "Reuben Hallard?" What did that matter when he had Claire Elizabeth Rossiter in front of him. And then he pulled himself up. It must matter. How delighted an hour ago those words would have made him. "Oh! you think there's something in it?" he said.
There were parts of it that were good, chapters that were better than anything in "Reuben Hallard" and then again there were many chapters where he saw it all in a fog, groped dimly for his characters, pushed, as it seemed to him, away from their lives and interests, by the actual lives and interests of the real people about him.
He looked at her more closely in the dim light from the landing window. "Yes; how did you know?" "I'm Miss Hallard." "Oh, oh yes! You're Sally's friend." "'Bout the only one she has." said Janet. There was no flinching in her eyes from his. "You mean that for me?" "Yes." "Would it surprise you to hear me say I deserve it?" "Yes, considerably. Isn't it a pity you didn't realize that a bit sooner?"
Zanti, Herr Gottfried, and Norah Monogue, and for his health one had only to look at him! "So died Reuben Hallard, a fool and a gentleman!" His excitement was tremendous; his cheeks were flaming, his eyes glittering, his heart beating.
There were chapters that were fuller, wiser, in every way more mature than anything in "Reuben Hallard." But it was amazingly unequal. There were places in it that had no kind of life at all; at times Peter appeared to have beheld his scenes and characters through a mist, to have been dragged right away from any kind of vision of the book, to have written wildly, blindly. The opinion of Mrs.
Sometimes, as he sat at his deal table, fighting with a growing sense of disillusionment that was like nothing so much as a child's first discovery that its beautiful doll is stuffed with straw, he would wish passionately, vehemently for the return of those days when he had sat in his little bedroom writing "Reuben Hallard" with Norah Monogue, and dear Mr.
On the edge of this new wave came "Reuben Hallard," combining as it did a certain amount of affectation with a good deal of naked truth, and having the rocks of Cornwall as well as its primroses for its background. It also told a story with a beginning to it and an end to it, and it contained the beautiful character of Mrs.
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