She filled his pocket-book the next day, when he went to New York to take the world by the throat. It was really not George Waldeaux's fault that she filled it.
Nor was it his fault that during the next two years the world was in no hurry to run to his feet, either to learn of him, or to bring him its bags of gold. The little man did his best; he put his "message," as he called it, into poems, into essays, into a novel. Publishers thanked him effusively for the pleasure of reading them, and--sent them back. The only word of his which reached the public was a review of the work of a successful author. It was so personal, so malignant, that George, when he read it, writhed with shame and humiliation. He tore the paper into fragments.
"Am I so envious and small as that! Before God, no words of mine shall ever go into print again!" he said, and he kept his word.
He came down every month or two to his mother.
"Why not try teaching, George?" she said anxiously.
"These great scholars and scientific men have places and reputations which even you need not despise."He laughed bitterly. "I tried for a place as tutor in a third-class school, and could not pass the examinations.
I know nothing accurately. Nothing."
It occurred to him to go into politics and help reform the world by routing a certain Irish boss. He made a speech at a ward meeting, and broke down in the middle of it before the storm of gibes and hootings.
"What was the matter?" he asked a friend, whose face was red with laughter.
"My dear fellow, you shouldn't lecture them! You're not the parson. They resent your air of enormous superiority. For Heaven's sake, don't speak again--in this campaign."It is a wretched story. There is no need of going into the details. There was no room for him. He tried in desperation to get some foothold in business. The times were hard that winter, which of course was against him.
Besides, his critical, haughty air naturally did not prepossess employers in his favor when he came to ask for a job.
At the end of the second year the man broke down.
"The work of the world," he told Frances, "belongs to specialists. Even a bootblack knows his trade. I know nothing. I can do nothing. I am a mass of flabby pretences."Every month she filled his pocket-book. She found at last that he did not touch the money. He sold his clothes and his jewelry to keep himself alive while he tramped the streets of New York looking for work. He starved himself to make this money last. His flesh was lead-colored from want of proper food, and he staggered from weakness. "`He that will not work neither let him eat,'" he said grimly.
It was about this time that Miss Vance came home. Mrs.
Waldeaux in a moment of weakness gave her a hint of his defeat.
"Is the world blind," she cried, "to deny work to a man of George's capacity? What does it mean?"Clara heard of George's sufferings with equanimity. "The truth is," she said, when she told the story to Miss Dunbar, "Frances brought that boy up to believe that he was a Grand Llama among men. There is no work for Grand Llamas in this country, and when he understands that he is made of very ordinary clay indeed, he will probably be of some use in the world."Lucy was watering her roses. "It is a matter of indifference to me," she said, "what the people of New York think of Mr. Waldeaux."Clara looked at her quickly. "I do not quite catch your meaning?" she said.
But Lucy filled her can, and forgot to answer.
