WATCH Hottest Scene of Elisha Cuthbert  CLICK HERE for Instant Access Elisha Cuthbert Photos |
Elisha Cuthbert Photos Books: Martin Eden The Pickwick Papers The Sea Wolf |
his head that he could have done aught otherwise than what he had
done. Well, yes, he was to blame a little, was his next thought, for
having refused the call to the Railway Mail. And she had not liked "Wiki-
Wiki."
He turned at the head of the steps to meet the letter-carrier on his
afternoon round. The ever recurrent fever of expectancy assailed Martin
as he took the bundle of long envelopes. One was not long. It was short
and thin, and outside was printed the address of The New York Outview. He
paused in the act of tearing the envelope open. It could not be an
acceptance. He had no manuscripts with that publication. Perhaps--his
heart almost stood still at the--wild thought--perhaps they were ordering
an article from him; but the next instant he dismissed the surmise as
hopelessly impossible.
It was a short, formal letter, signed by the office editor, merely
informing him that an anonymous letter which they had received was
enclosed, and that he could rest assured the Outviews staff never under
any circumstances gave consideration to anonymous correspondence.
The enclosed letter Martin found to be crudely printed by hand. It was a
hotchpotch of illiterate abuse of Martin, and of assertion that the "so-
called Martin Eden" who was selling stories to magazines was no writer at
all, and that in reality he was stealing stories from old magazines,
typing them, and sending them out as his own. The envelope was
postmarked "San Leandro." Martin did not require a second thought to
discover the author. Higginbothams grammar, Higginbothams
colloquialisms, Higginbothams mental quirks and processes, were apparent
throughout. Martin saw in every line, not the fine Italian hand, but the
coarse grocers fist, of his brother-in-law.
But why? he vainly questioned. What injury had he done Bernard
Higginbotham? The thing was so unreasonable, so wanton. There was no
explaining it. In the course of the week a dozen similar letters were
forwarded to Martin by the editors of various Eastern magazines. The
editors were behaving handsomely, Martin concluded. He was wholly
unknown to them, yet some of them had even been sympathetic. It was
evident that they detested anonymity. He saw that the malicious attempt
to hurt him had failed. In fact, if anything came of it, it was bound to
be good, for at least his name had been called to the attention of a
number of editors. Sometime, perhaps, reading a submitted manuscript of
his, they might remember him as the fellow about whom they had received
an anonymous letter. And who was to say that such a remembrance might
not sway the balance of their judgment just a trifle in his favor?
It was about this time that Martin took a great slump in Marias
estimation. He found her in the kitchen one morning groaning with pain,
tears of weakness running down her cheeks, vainly endeavoring to put
through a large ironing. He promptly diagnosed her affliction as La
Grippe, dosed her with hot whiskey (the remnants in the bottles for which
Brissenden was responsible), and ordered her to bed. But Maria was
refractory. The ironing had to be done, she protested, and delivered
that night, or else there would be no food on the morrow for the seven
small and hungry Silvas.
To her astonishment (and it was something that she never ceased from
relating to her dying day), she saw Martin Eden seize an iron from the
stove and throw a fancy shirt-waist on the ironing-board. It was Kate
Flanagans best Sunday waist, than whom there was no more exacting and
fastidiously dressed woman in Marias world. Also, Miss Flanagan had
sent special instruction that said waist must be delivered by that night.
As every one knew, she was keeping company with John Collins, the
blacksmith, and, as Maria knew privily, Miss Flanagan and Mr. Collins
were going next day to Golden Gate Park. Vain was Marias attempt to
rescue the garment. Martin guided her tottering footsteps to a chair,
from where she watched him with bulging eyes. In a quarter of the time
it would have taken her she saw the shirt-waist safely ironed, and ironed
as well as she could have done it, as Martin made her grant.
"I could work faster," he explained, "if your irons were only hotter."
To her, the irons he swung Martin Eden page 138 Martin Eden page 140 |