The Vicars Daughter | Page 3

hardly believing him to be in earnest, "that I
should be exposing my story to you and Mr. Blackstone at least. If I
were to make the absurd attempt,--I mean absurd as regards my
ability,--I should be always thinking of you two as my public, and
whether it would be right for me to say this and say that; which you
may see at once would render it impossible for me to write at all."

"I think I can suggest a way out of that difficulty, Wynnie," said my
father. "You must write freely, all you feel inclined to write, and then
let your husband see it. You may be content to let all pass that he
passes."
"You don't say you really mean it, papa! The thing is perfectly
impossible. I never wrote a book in my life, and"--
"No more did I, my dear, before I began my first."
"But you grew up to it by degrees, papa!"
"I have no doubt that will make it the easier for you, when you try. I am
so far, at least, a Darwinian as to believe that."
"But, really, Mr. S. ought to have more sense--I beg your pardon, Mr.
S.; but it is perfectly absurd to suppose me capable of finishing any
thing my father has begun. I assure you I don't feel flattered by your
proposal. I have got a man of more consequence for a father than that
would imply."
All this time my tall husband sat silent at the foot of the table, as if he
had nothing on earth to do with the affair, instead of coming to my
assistance, when, as I thought, I really needed it, especially seeing my
own father was of the combination against me; for what can be more
miserable than to be taken for wiser or better or cleverer than you know
perfectly well you are. I looked down the table, straight and sharp at
him, thinking to rouse him by the most powerful of silent appeals; and
when he opened his mouth very solemnly, staring at me in return down
all the length of the table, I thought I had succeeded. But I was not a
little surprised, when I heard him say,--
"I think, Wynnie, as your father and Mr. S. appear to wish it, you might
at least try."
This almost overcame me, and I was very near,--never mind what. I bit
my lips, and tried to smile, but felt as if all my friends had forsaken me,
and were about to turn me out to beg my bread. How on earth could I
write a book without making a fool of myself?
"You know, Mrs. Percivale," said Mr. S., "you needn't be afraid about
the composition, and the spelling, and all that. We can easily set those
to rights at the office."
He couldn't have done any thing better to send the lump out of my
throat; for this made me angry.
"I am not in the least anxious about the spelling," I answered; "and for

the rest, pray what is to become of me, if what you print should happen
to be praised by somebody who likes my husband or my father, and
therefore wants to say a good word for me? That's what a good deal of
reviewing comes to, I understand. Am I to receive in silence what
doesn't belong to me, or am I to send a letter to the papers to say that
the whole thing was patched and polished at the printing-office, and
that I have no right to more than perhaps a fourth part of the
commendation? How would that do?"
"But you forget it is not to have your name to it," he said; "and so it
won't matter a bit. There will be nothing dishonest about it."
"You forget, that, although nobody knows my real name, everybody
will know that I am the daughter of that Mr. Walton who would have
thrown his pen in the fire if you had meddled with any thing he wrote.
They would be praising _me_, if they praised at all. The name is
nothing. Of all things, to have praise you don't deserve, and not to be
able to reject it, is the most miserable! It is as bad as painting one's
face."
"Hardly a case in point," said Mr. Blackstone. "For the artificial
complexion would be your own work, and the other would not."
"If you come to discuss that question," said my father, "we must all
confess we have had in our day to pocket a good many more praises
than we had a right to. I agree with you, however, my child, that we
must not connive at any thing of the sort. So I will propose this clause