The Broad Highway | Page 2

said I; "who knows?"
"Ah! who knows?" said the Tinker. And after he had cleansed the pan to his satisfaction, he turned to me with dexter finger upraised and brow of heavy portent. "Young fellow," said he, "no man can write a good nov-el without he knows summat about love, it aren't to be expected--so the sooner you do learn, the better."
"Hum!" said I.
"And then, as I said afore and I say it again, they wants love in a book nowadays, and wot's more they will have it."
"They?" said I.
"The folk as will read your book--after it is written."
"Ah! to be sure," said I, somewhat taken aback; "I had forgotten them."
"Forgotten them?" repeated the Tinker, staring.
"Forgotten that people might went to read it--after it is written."
"But," said the Tinker, rubbing his nose hard, "books are written for people to read, aren't they?"
"Not always," said I.
Hereupon the Tinker rubbed his nose harder than ever.
"Many of the world's greatest books, those masterpieces which have lived and shall live on forever, were written (as I believe) for the pure love of writing them."
"Oh!" said the Tinker.
"Yes," said I, warming to my theme, "and with little or no idea of the eyes of those unborn generations which were to read and marvel at them; hence it is we get those sublime thoughts untrammelled by passing tastes and fashions, unbounded by narrow creed or popular prejudice."
"Ah?" said the Tinker.
"Many a great writer has been spoiled by fashion and success, for, so soon as he begins to think upon his public, how best to please and hold their fancy (which is ever the most fickle of mundane things) straightway Genius spreads abroad his pinions and leaves him in the mire."
"Poor cove!" said the Tinker. "Young man, you smile, I think?"
"No," said I.
"Well, supposing a writer never had no gen'us--how then?"
"Why then," said I, "he should never dare to write at all."
"Young fellow," said the Tinker, glancing at me from the corners of his eyes, "are you sure you are a gen'us then?"
Now when my companion said this I fell silent, for the very sufficient reason that I found nothing to say.
"Lord love you!" said he at last, seeing me thus "hipped"--"don't be downhearted--don't be dashed afore you begin; we can't all be gen'uses--it aren't to be expected, but some on us is a good deal better than most and that's something arter all. As for your book, wot you have to do is to give 'em a little blood now and then with plenty of love and you can't go far wrong!"
Now whether the Tinker's theory for the writing of a good novel be right or wrong, I will not presume to say. But in this book that lies before you, though you shall read, if you choose, of country things and ways and people, yet, because that part of my life herein recorded was a something hard, rough life, you shall read also of blood; and, because I came, in the end, to love very greatly, so shall you read of love.
Wherefore, then, I am emboldened to hope that when you shall have turned the last page and closed this book, you shall do so with a sigh.
P. V.
LONDON.

BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I
CHIEFLY CONCERNING MY UNCLE'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
"'And to my nephew, Maurice Vibart, I bequeath the sum of twenty thousand pounds in the fervent hope that it may help him to the devil within the year, or as soon after as may be.'"
Here Mr. Grainger paused in his reading to glance up over the rim of his spectacles, while Sir Richard lay back in his chair and laughed loudly. "Gad!" he exclaimed, still chuckling, "I'd give a hundred pounds if he could have been present to hear that," and the baronet went off into another roar of merriment.
Mr. Grainger, on the other hand, dignified and solemn, coughed a short, dry cough behind his hand.
"Help him to the devil within the year," repeated Sir Richard, still chuckling.
"Pray proceed, sir," said I, motioning towards the will.... But instead of complying, Mr. Grainger laid down the parchment, and removing his spectacles, began to polish them with a large silk handkerchief.
"You are, I believe, unacquainted with your cousin, Sir Maurice Vibart?" he inquired.
"I have never seen him," said I; "all my life has been passed either at school or the university, but I have frequently heard mention of him, nevertheless."
"Egad!" cried Sir Richard, "who hasn't heard of Buck Vibart--beat Ted Jarraway of Swansea in five rounds--drove coach and four down Whitehall--on sidewalk--ran away with a French marquise while but a boy of twenty, and shot her husband into the bargain. Devilish celebrated figure in 'sporting circles,' friend of the Prince Regent--"
"So I understand," said I.
"Altogether as complete a young blackguard as ever swaggered down St. James's." Having said which, Sir